


Free Pardon

by bigblueboxat221b



Series: Free Will [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Established Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, Established Relationship, Light Angst, M/M, lovely sex if I do say so myself
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-04
Updated: 2018-05-12
Packaged: 2019-05-02 02:16:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 21,835
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14534511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigblueboxat221b/pseuds/bigblueboxat221b
Summary: Big decisions have been made by both Greg and Mycroft, however uncertain the details may still be. All that remains to do is tell everyone else what's going on.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Okie dokie, smokey! Let's get going on this, the third instalment of the Free Will series. I can't wait to share it with you! Thank you everyone who has followed from the start, jumped aboard midway or found this series and binged recently to be all caught up. :D

It felt late when Mycroft woke. He moved tentatively, hoping the effects of last night’s Scotch would not make itself known too loudly inside his head. To his immense surprise, he felt quite well. It appeared the amount of Scotch he’d drunk along with the water and aspirin had made for the perfect night’s sleep. He stretched carefully, trying not to disrupt Greg.

“Whaaazit,” Greg mumbled, burying his face in Mycroft’s shoulder. His breath huffed across Mycroft’s shoulder, and a quiet smile played as Mycroft watched him nuzzle in, feeling the press of warm skin to his own. The sensation was familiar now, but Mycroft hoped he would never get used to the intense intimacy of waking up pressed against another person. This person.

“Nothing,” Mycroft murmured. He could reach his phone – just – and was surprised again at the actual time. It was barely 8am. Well, they had napped most of the afternoon before stumbling to bed at quite an early hour. His body clock had been gradually resetting itself – earlier nights to bed, if not to sleep, and later mornings as he caught up on years of missed sleep. Mycroft hadn’t thought his body was even capable of so many hours of rest in a row. Perhaps it was simply that he’d lived so long with it that his rhythm had been all but erased. Already, Gregory was having a positive effect on him. It would take time and effort to change the habits of so many years, but they had started. It wasn’t until he’d started running one hand absentmindedly up and down Greg’s arm, feeling the hairs rise at his gentle touch, that Mycroft remembered the previous day – and why they’d had such an early night.

His hand slowed for a moment as he considered the hours after they’d returned home. His first response was panic, though the initial flutters were easily quelled when he turned his attention to the texture of Gregory’s skin under his fingers. Although nothing had been settled, he felt as though it was simply waiting for the conversation in which it would, in fact, be settled. Gregory had more or less made his decision, that much was clear. Mycroft cringed as he recalled the latter hours in which he’d bared his deepest fear – that Gregory would tire of him. They really had begun in such unusual circumstances. How would Gregory adapt to a routine, to the regular ‘I won’t be home tonight for dinner’ of his work, or the tedium of ‘should we walk into the village today’, should they decide to retire together?

As he slid carefully out of bed, resettling Gregory against the warmth of his pillow, Mycroft thought about the possibilities. While Gregory had a tentatively-set-out plan for his own future, Mycroft had made only one real decision. He could not continue in his current position. His health, for the first time in his life, was a higher priority than his work. To be strictly accurate the priority was Gregory, but if keeping his own good health would benefit Gregory, Mycroft would do it without a second thought. He was brushing his teeth when the thought occurred to him that Gregory must surely have a preferred outcome from all this. Certainly, Mycroft had hoped Gregory would choose MI5, even as he strove to present a neutral array of options. And now he sat on the other side of the table, considering options without an inkling of Gregory’s preference in one direction or another.

Returning to bed, Mycroft did his best not to disrupt the sleeping form draped across his pillow. As the mattress sagged under his weight though, Gregory stirred and groaned. He reached over to kiss Mycroft’s shoulder before turning away.

“Gotta take a leak,” Gregory muttered sleepily, snorting a soft laugh when Mycroft clucked in disapproval at the rough phrasing. From the bed, Mycroft had a glorious view of Gregory’s delectable arse disappearing into the bathroom. Mycroft sighed. He’d have to ask Gregory what he thought – how else could he make a decision? Apart from the fact that it was Gregory providing the impetus for this decision – perhaps best not to mention that detail to him – Mycroft wanted Gregory to be happy. He needed him to stay. But Mycroft didn’t want to bring it up now, to continue directly where they left off last night. Their time here was now remarkably limited – they would have to leave tomorrow morning to make it to Gregory’s follow up appointment with Doctor Phelps – and he needed some space from that cold reality, a last block of time to connect, to confirm their relationship and cement their connection.

At the idea of returning to London, Mycroft’s mind automatically began to consider the tasks he would need to complete on his arrival. It was frustratingly incomplete, but without a firm commitment to his decision – the tentative idea to resign from his work – he simply could not progress. He knew a decision would have to be made sooner rather than later. If he chose to leave, there would be meetings to arrange, briefings for those who would be taking on his responsibilities. He himself would need to be debriefed. A smirk crossed his face as he wondered who would take on that responsibility. Precious few people had a working knowledge of his portfolio. Moreover, only a handful of agents had resigned in Mycroft’s tenure, so the procedure would be inefficient and probably poorly managed.

The sad truth was most agents who left such high level positions moved from one department to another, were seconded overseas or simply took leave and did not return, whatever that meant. It was unfortunate, too, that agents were known to go undercover and not return. Worse still were those who returned, their bodies more or less intact but minds forever scarred. Many of those either disappeared (fate unknown) or took more drastic measures to silence the horrors playing on endless loop through their heads. The stress of his industry was a given, but without first-hand experience, few understood the magnitude of the impact on the individuals involved. Training was one thing, reality something else entirely. Mycroft had never thought it would be him, his work keeping him largely at home, but the possibility still hung over him with each day of his employment. He had always feared descending to a place in which there appeared no other option.

Not I, he’d always told himself, ignoring the tiny voice that countered, _maybe_.

As Gregory returned, shuffling his feet sleepily across the floor, a smile rose on Mycroft's face. _Not I,_ he thought to himself determinedly, opening his arms to accommodate Gregory. _Not I._


	2. Chapter 2

Greg’s bladder had demanded he get up, at least for long enough to visit the facilities. He’d reluctantly pulled himself away from the warm snuggling mass that was Mycroft, taking the shortest time possible to relieve himself before diving back under the covers. Mycroft was awake enough to open his arms, warm hands sliding over bare skin chilled by the early morning air. Greg hummed in appreciation, turning in to nuzzle at Mycroft’s shoulder.

“Gregory?”

“Mmmm,” Greg hummed.

“Do you remember last night?”

“Mostly,” Greg murmured, voice still rough with sleep.

“You called me ‘My’”, Mycroft said.

“Did I?” Greg said. He frowned, grasping at the threads of memory. “Yeah, I did.” He recalled the rest of that short conversation, remembered what he’d mumbled into Mycroft’s chest as he tipped over into sleep.

“Told you I loved you, too,” Greg added. He struggled up, limbs still heavy, to look at Mycroft. “We’ve not said it so many times.” His eyes roamed over Mycroft’s slightly anxious face.

“You don’t have to say it back,” Greg said, interpreting Mycroft’s silence as concern that he would be expected to return the sentiment. “Whether you do or not, you don’t have to say the words.”

Mycroft let out a breath. Greg couldn’t tell if it was relief or frustration or a little of both.

Time to change the subject, Greg thought. “No shirt,” he murmured. He dragged his chin over Mycroft’s collarbone, smiling at the hitch of breath. He turned his head, allowing his lips to press against the bony lump. Another indrawn breath, this time with a press of fingers into his sides. Interesting, Greg thought, pulling his lips back, scraping his teeth lightly, feeling the thrill run through his body at the enhanced reaction. He kissed randomly downwards, the warm air below the blanket enveloping his head. Mycroft’s fingers were kneading his back now, being dragged higher as Greg shifted slowly down. The slow rhythm matched Greg’s kisses; he was pleased Mycroft wasn’t pressing faster. He loved this slow exploration, sleepy and soft, no pressure. Mycroft smelled good, like their soap and sheets, the smell Greg had come to associate with safety and comfort. He smiled against the soft belly, feeling Mycroft’s growing erection twitch under his chin.

Greg’s own cock was starting to fill out, though not with any great urgency; he was content to be kissing Mycroft, smoothing circles over any skin he could reach. The soft sighs and moans told him Mycroft was enjoying it too. There was something about this, Greg thought, that was deeper than the dirty fucking they’d practiced all over Mycroft’s flat. That had been fun, hot as hell of course, but this was far more emotional. That had been physically intimate but this was satisfying in a different way, one that made him feel more complete, if it wasn’t too sappy an idea. Knowing the exact noise Mycroft would make when Greg’s tongue licked long and slow over the head of his cock, he went ahead and did it, relishing the high sharp squeak, the buck of hips he knew would come. Fingers reached down blindly and Greg wove his fingers between them, gripping their hands together as he started slowly working on Mycroft’s cock, taking the scenic route towards orgasm. He wanted Mycroft to feel the slow burn, the lazy build of expectation in his gut until everything exploded.

Greg had no idea how long he was there, kissing and licking Mycroft, worshiping his skin. He knew his knuckles were sore from Mycroft’s grip, his jaw aching a little from long deep sucks, Mycroft’s cock pressing his tongue down as it nudged the back of Greg’s throat. Mycroft was practically twitching now, hips straining and skin flushed so vibrantly it was a wonder his heart had any left to work with. Greg’s own body was distant; he felt aroused but not urgently so, too busy concentrating on Mycroft to feel his own need. He took a moment, tongue tracing delicate patterns on Mycroft’s shaft, to look up. Mycroft’s head was thrown back, his body arched as though anticipating the final moment, the last flicker that would push him the last millimetre over in the abyss. Greg had wanted to lock eyes with him, hoping that might be it, but instead he marvelled at his self-control not to have pressed down on Greg’s head and fucked his mouth. Greg had assured him several times he didn’t mind it. Privately he didn’t love that specific experience, but knowing Mycroft was so close and desperate that he’d discard his usual manners was more of a turn on that he’d imagined it could be, and so it worked for both of them.

Right now, though, Mycroft was deep in a zone and Greg didn’t want to pull him out – he wanted to push him over. Instead of the eye contact he instead dropped his mouth downwards, using his free hand to stroke hard and fast while he nosed Mycroft’s balls aside and sucked hard on his perineum. With a shout of surprise (and ecstasy, Greg was satisfied to note), Mycroft bucked, not once but a stuttering rhythm that heralded the shattering orgasm he’d been holding off. Greg felt wetness on his hand, and Mycroft’s hips tilted, his arse clenching as he almost threw Greg off his body. Grinning breathlessly, Greg kept stroking Mycroft, the other fingers locked with Mycroft’s in the rigor of his orgasm.

After what felt like the longest time, the shudders subsided and Mycroft was lying on his side, hand still connected to Greg, breathing hard. Greg carefully shifted around behind him, cuddling close, bringing the blankets with him. The air was cold and they would soon feel it despite their current warmth. Their hands reluctantly separated and Greg flexed his fingers, wondering if Mycroft’s hand was as cramped as his own. He pressed kisses into Mycroft’s shoulder, pulling him close without pressing too much into his back. He loved this part, the coming down, sorting through what happened and integrating it with his world. That was how Mycroft had explained it, in halting words one day. To Greg it sounded a lot like ‘trying to lock every bit down so I never ever forget’, which was breathtakingly honest and flattering to his ego.

He was just trying to decide if he could drift back to sleep when Mycroft turned over in his arms and pressed into him. Greg’s body, which had been firmly protesting sleep when there was still a respectable amount of his blood occupied maintaining his erection, noticed immediately.

“Count slowly to thirty,” Mycroft murmured in his ear, “that’s how long until you’ll be coming in my mouth.”

The words were still processing when Mycroft slid under the covers, and Greg felt his pyjama bottoms being pulled unceremoniously off.

“Count, Gregory,” came the muffled voice.

Greg felt the breath across his thighs, and as he stuttered, “Er, one,” Mycroft’s mouth descended on his cock. Greg groaned loudly – this was clearly going to be the exact opposite of what he had done for Mycroft.

“Keep counting,” Mycroft said, and the loss of sensation brought Greg out of his shock.

“Right, two, three…” he continued slowly, the concentration becoming more and more difficult as Mycroft used every technique in his considerable repertoire to bring Greg to slamming orgasm as fast as possible.

“Christ,” Greg groaned as Mycroft’s fingers slid into him – what was he using for lube, something wet, “ten, eleven…fuck…” Mycroft’s fingers were unashamedly sliding past his prostate on every thrust, sending deep waves through his body. Greg felt all the arousal he’d pushed aside come swirling together, pulling in faster than a tornado in his abdomen.

“T-twenty,” he managed, fingers gripping the sheets as Mycroft’s tongue did that thing on the underside of his cock, what was that, something incredible…

“Twenty three, twenty…twenty…” what the fuck came next, “twent-oh fuck, Myc….twe-oh, My…”

The numbers were gone, wiped away by the blinding orgasm slamming into Greg, exploding and imploding at the same time, every part of his body bathed in white energy, more and more pouring from the pressure inside him and out, waves of it replacing the cascade flowing out of his every pore. Slowly the waves subsided, the flow slackened, and Greg felt himself relax.

“You didn’t make it to thirty,” Mycroft said, his voice a little rough but infinitely pleased with himself.

“Someone was sucking on my cock and pressing on my prostate,” Greg replied, still breathless. He must have been shouting, his throat was sore too. Could be the extended blow job, his mind said wryly.

“Yes,” Mycroft purred, curling up next to him. “They were, weren’t they?”

Greg chuckled, then sighed as he melted back into Mycroft’s arms.

 “Mmmm,” Greg hummed, the warmth still singing in his veins. He yawned and stretched, reaching for his phone. “Wow, I thought it would be later,” he murmured.

“We did retire quite early,” Mycroft replied. “And our afternoon was hardly strenuous.”

“True,” replied Greg. He thumbed idly through his phone’s media. “Hey, let’s watch the videos we made last night.”

“Oh God,” Mycroft muttered. “I’d almost forgotten.”

Greg poked him in the ribs as he opened the media folder of his phone. “Oi. You agreed to it, remember?”

“Vividly,” replied Mycroft, wincing. “You were very persuasive, as I recall.”

“I know,” Greg smirked. He felt Mycroft’s head rest against his as he brought the screen close. Before the videos there were a bunch of photos; some of Greg’s face, too close and blurry, Mycroft barely visible in the background. Most were too small in the preview to really examine, but Mycroft winced anyway.

“Let’s skip those, shall we?” Mycroft suggested.

 “Videos, then?” Greg said, cuing up the first. Mycroft sighed dramatically but nodded. Greg’s voice came over loud as he rambled on about where they were and how great the bakery was. The camera swung wildly around, settling on Mycroft. He looked exasperatedly off screen, and Greg watched with fascination as the amusement and shyness battled across his face. The lighting was terrible and his phone kept going fuzzy as it struggled to remain focused, but Greg relished these few moments of Mycroft, recorded just for him. Mycroft’s shirt was unbuttoned, and as they watched he slumped sideways against Greg, his face slipped into a slow smile. Greg could see the happiness on his face and in the relaxed slope of his shoulders pressed against the blue of Greg’s jumper on the screen.

He was shaking his head now, lips moving in feeble protest. The sigh was visible, eyes rolling and shoulders rising with the effort before Greg’s face appeared, the image growing even shakier. It was still clear that Greg was kissing Mycroft, a slow press of lips finally broken when Mycroft pulled away to leave a giggling Greg alone in the shot. Abruptly the video stopped, Greg’s laughing face frozen as the final frame of the show.

“You are aware that if you show these to anybody I will have no choice but to kill you?” Mycroft said when the image had faded from the screen.

“Yeah,” Greg said happily. “But it will have been worth it.”

Mycroft turned to give him a severe look, but Greg wasn’t fooled. He dropped his phone and lifted his finger to trace the furrows in Mycroft’s brow. “Don’t worry, gorgeous,” he murmured. “Your secrets are safe with me.”


	3. Chapter 3

After a slow start – meandering downstairs for coffee, drunk slowly leaning against each other and the kitchen bench, one very long bath shared between two bodies – Greg and Mycroft made their way into town. They were a lot later than usual, but their routine had its benefits. As Mycroft thanked the newsagent for the copy of The Financial Times he’d held back, Greg stepped into the bakery.

“I was wondering if you’d be in today.”

“Late start, I’m afraid.” Greg replied. He surveyed the display case, trying to decide between the raspberry muffins and the apple turnovers. Neither would meet his doctor’s approval, but it was his last day, so…

“Good thing I know you like my chocolate croissants,” she said, holding it out as though displaying a precious gemstone. “Kept one back for you.”

“Wow, thanks.” Greg said, accepting the pastry with pleasure. Mycroft entered as Greg paid, politely declining anything for himself.

“See you tomorrow, then?” the baker asked.

“We’re heading back to London tomorrow morning,” Mycroft told her. He turned to address Greg. “I should tell the newsagent, he was kind enough to hold a copy of The Financial Times for me…”

“I’ll let him know,” the baker assured him. “If you’re not leaving too early, drop in on your way out of town. I’ll make another batch of chocolate croissants.”

“Thank you,” Greg replied, touched by the kind gesture. “We will.”

They took their leave, walking slowly back towards their home, stopping briefly past the Pressmore’s cottage. It felt quite final, for some reason now – along with the baker and newsagent they were probably the only two people in town who had noted the arrival of the silver-haired man and his well-spoken partner. So everyone knew they were leaving. Tomorrow.

Mycroft had tucked the newspaper under his arm and now reached for Greg’s hand. He was glad of the contact. Their imminent return to London was a jolt back to reality. Greg had been reminded of the recent events every time he took the medication provided by his doctor, but this would be different. The changes they’d talked about, that he’d committed to, would become real and not just castles in the air. He would be resigning from the Force. Taking whatever pay-out he was owed, a mediocre pension and turning in his badge. And although Mycroft had lined up MI5 – which sounded pretty interesting, if he was honest with himself – it marked the end of Detective Inspector Lestrade. It would be quite a change to his mind-set. Not to mention the changes to his diet, his drinking habits, and he really should buy a new pair of proper running shoes…

“A penny for your thoughts, Gregory,” Mycroft’s voice cut into his thoughts.

“Just thinking about London,” Greg told him. “Gotta see Doc Phelps tomorrow and then,” he shrugged, “the real stuff begins.”

“It does,” Mycroft replied. Greg felt his fingers squeeze and he returned the pressure, glad for the subtle support he knew it indicated. They lapsed into silence again, Greg grateful Mycroft didn’t press him for details. It was likely he was thinking of his own return. After Mycroft’s announcement the previous day, he hadn’t made any solid plans as far as Greg knew. He understood of course – it was big enough just to realise change must be made, let alone plan for it immediately. Mycroft would need some time to consider his options and come to a decision. From what he said last night, the handover might be draw out as other people took over various aspects of his job. Greg imagined there would be a debrief of some kind. He wondered if Mycroft would have to speak to the Queen. Probably. Christ, that made his impending conversation with his DCI seem tame in comparison – and he was pretty apprehensive.

“Other than seeing Doctor Phelps,” Mycroft said as they entered their cottage ( _how possessive of you_ , Greg’s inner voice noted), “do you have any plans for tomorrow?”

“Well, the bakery first, obviously,” Greg said, turning on the kettle and grinning at him. He set about making tea to go with his croissant. “After that, I’d better see Mum or she’ll throttle me when we do actually cross paths.”

“You do have a lot to discuss with her,” Mycroft agreed, seating himself at the table.

“I might call her now, actually,” Greg said, pulling out his phone. He hesitated before deciding to send a text instead.

_10.31am_

_Hi Mum, I’ll be back in London tomorrow._

_10am appt with doc, then free._

_Lunch? My shout. xx Greg_

 

The flashing dots appeared immediately, so he waited.

_10.32am_

_Yes. Koffee Kup at 12?_

_10.34am_

_See you there. xx Greg_

 

It wasn’t a great sign that she’d been so brief, but at least she hadn’t called him, Greg told himself. He knew there would be a fair bit of apologising due on his side tomorrow, but that was fair enough. Apart from a single phone call giving her the bare bones of his medical incident, she hadn’t heard from him in weeks. Not that the house arrest was his fault, but still…

“By all means apologise to her but please ensure she knows of the extenuating circumstances,” Mycroft said without looking up from his newspaper.

Greg looked at him, then down at himself. Arms crossed, shoulders hunched, frown, biting lip. “Fair enough,” he said, picking up the kettle and making tea. “Lunch with Mum tomorrow. Midday at the café near her place that she likes.” He brought the tea over. “I should probably go on my own. I hope that’s okay.”

“Of course it is,” Mycroft said, accepting his mug. “I hardly think you need to add meeting me to the list, and you will both be more candid without my presence.”

Greg smiled at him in relief. “After that I should go into work, I guess.” He sighed, breaking his croissant into small pieces. “I need to talk to my DCI about resigning,” it still felt odd to say it, “and I’ll want to tell Sally. Might take her out for a drink if the timing works.”

Mycroft nodded.

“I was also thinking of going to tell Sherlock,” Greg added. Mycroft raised one eyebrow. “Well, he’s the only other person that I care about being impacted by this. I’m a bit worried how he’s going to cope, actually.”

“I had considered that aspect as well,” Mycroft admitted. He folded his newspaper, placing his hands atop the newsprint. “However my brother is taking on an increasing number of private cases. And John is good for him.”

“That’s true.” Greg agreed. “Did you tell me a while ago that Sally was Acting-DI?” When Mycroft nodded, Greg went on, “If she gets the DI job, I think I could talk her around to calling Sherlock, sometimes. There’s some bridge building needed there, obviously, but it’s certainly possible.”

“Does assisting Sergeant Donovan’s career count as ‘pulling strings to help’?” Mycroft asked.

“I don’t believe it does,” Greg replied with a small smile. “Seriously, she’d be a good candidate anyway. But it would help Sherlock in the long run if there was someone at NSY who…”

“Tolerated him?”

“Yeah,” Greg grinned. “I was going to say ‘liked him’ but that seemed a bit of a stretch, sorry.”

“Not at all,” Mycroft replied. “My brother has been blessed beyond his understanding to have someone such as yourself looking out for him. Even a hesitant Detective Inspector Donovan would be better than nothing.”

“Right, I’ll bring it up when I see her. Just plant the idea, see how she reacts,” Greg agreed. “I don’t think she’d be too pleased to know any strings had been pulled to be honest. She kind of wants to make it on her own merits.”

“An admirable quality,” Mycroft said pointedly. “I will be discreet, of course. If she is as good a candidate as you believe, it is possible my input will not be necessary at all.”

“Thanks,” Greg said softly. “For everything. This has been,” he blew out an explosive breath, “a big few months.”

“Indeed it has,” Mycroft agreed. He sipped at his tea as Greg seated himself beside Mycroft, pulling a chair around so their knees pressed together under the table.

“What are you going to do?” Greg asked carefully. He was asking about more than tomorrow, really; but the option was there for Mycroft to deliberately misunderstand, and Greg wouldn’t push the issue. From the length of time Mycroft contemplated his answer, Greg could tell he was thinking further than tomorrow. His heart sped up. This was a big decision for both of them. He waited, concentrating on his breathing as Mycroft’s mind worked behind his impassive face.

“Tomorrow,” Mycroft said slowly, and Greg’s heart slowed in disappointment, “I have no concrete plans.” He looked up at Greg, eyes filled with apprehension. After a beat, Greg realised what he meant. Mycroft was trying to tell him that he still hadn’t decided for certain. “I know I should,” he whispered, eyes begging Greg to understand.

“You should do whatever you need to,” Greg told him immediately. “No pressure from me. Take as much time as you need. You don’t need to make a decision right now.”

“It will be far easier to leave now,” Mycroft said, his voice brittle, “rather than recommence my duties only to decide later to leave.”

Greg nodded. He understood that. Sliding his hands across the table, he enveloped Mycroft’s in his, stroking the back of Mycroft’s wrists with the tops of his fingers.

“I don’t care,” he said, looking right at Mycroft. “I. Don’t. Care. I care about you. About what is best for _you_ , what is easiest for _you_. If you need to sit on this idea for a year, then do it.” He lifted one hand, caressing Mycroft’s face with a gentle touch. “I will be here.” He smiled. “I love you.”

Mycroft’s face crumpled. “I don’t know what to do,” he whispered, trembling hand rising to cover Greg’s. “I want to…” he took a deep shuddering breath. “I want to spend time with you. More time than my job will allow. If you or I were to be taken ill, or worse…” he gripped Greg’s hand tight enough that it hurt, but Greg didn’t let go.

“Me either,” Greg whispered. “I couldn’t either.” He leaned forward, pressing his forehead to Mycroft’s. “But you have to make the decision. I can’t do it for you.” He managed a smile between the tears that were threatening. “For the same reasons you couldn’t make the decision for me.”

Mycroft gave a tremulous smile, his breathing loud in the silence.

Greg closed his eyes as he breathed deeply, fingers tightening again, his other arm slipping around Mycroft’s shoulders, winding them together. It was awkward, hands and arms at a strange angle.

“Come on,” Greg said, unwinding them and leading Mycroft to the sofa. He sat against one end, inviting Mycroft to sit between his parted legs. Mycroft did without hesitation, and Greg pulled the blanket from the back of the sofa, covering Mycroft before enfolding him. It wasn’t that cold, but they both needed the comfort of cuddling together, soft blanket cocooning them in a bubble of trust. Greg traced his hand slowly along Mycroft’s back, wide slow circles matching the gradual relaxation of their matched breathing. It was slow and sleepy and completely intended to calm Mycroft and make him feel safe. Greg was in no rush. They had no plans for the rest of the day, and even if they did, this was infinitely more important. It felt like a watershed moment. The moments in which Greg could convince Mycroft of his unconditional commitment to their plan. To _them_. With time and patience some of Greg’s sincerity would seep through Mycroft’s defences and gift him just a little confidence. Confidence in Greg’s emotional attachment, in his genuine intention to stay with Mycroft, his concern and unwavering support as Mycroft struggled with such a monumental decision. In Greg’s mind it would be far easier for Mycroft to resign now; for all the reasons Mycroft had already mentioned. But it wasn’t about him. This was Mycroft’s life, Mycroft’s life work. If it took a month, or six months or a year, Greg was determined to support Mycroft however he could.

“Better?” Greg murmured.

“Mmmm,” Mycroft hummed.

“Just want you to feel safe,” Greg said quietly, his hand still sliding smoothly over Mycroft’s back.

It was quiet for a long time.

“I do,” Mycroft said finally. “You do.”

Greg’s heart surged. He knew it was a big admission for Mycroft. He smiled, pressing his face into Mycroft’s hair, hoping he could feel the muscles and read the contentment.

“So glad we get to do this,” Greg told him. Much as this was intended to soothe Mycroft, he was enjoying the close quiet moments too. Back in London their time would be far less free, even if they both resigned immediately. This was precious time and Greg wasn’t taking a moment of it for granted. He closed his eyes, allowing himself to drift as he breathed in Mycroft’s scent.

He had no idea how long they stayed like that. The day had been overcast anyway, and the light appeared much the same, not that it mattered. Greg stared at the ceiling for a while, noting the twinge in his hip where it could do with a change of position. He wasn’t sure if Mycroft was awake or not, though, and didn’t want to disturb him.

 “Hey,” whispered Greg.

“Mmm?” Mycroft replied sleepily. Greg shifted a little, easing his hip. He smiled at the contented look on Mycroft’s face. So temping to take a picture, he thought, then grinned as something occurred to him.

“Let’s look at the photos from last night.”

Mycroft groaned in protest, but didn’t stop Greg from pulling out his phone.

“Skip the videos, please Gregory,” Mycroft asked, his voice muffled by Greg’s jumper.

Without comment, Greg did so, coming to a halt at a shot of the two of them. They were slumped on the sofa, not completely sober, Greg thought. Mycroft was looking past the camera, smiling slightly to himself, but Greg’s eyes were pinned to Mycroft. _I adore you_ , his face said, radiating happiness. Greg knew Mycroft well enough to know that he’d felt Greg’s eyes on him and was deliberately not returning the look.

“That one’s not bad,” Greg managed. He hoped it was high enough resolution for him to have a print made. Mycroft only hummed in reply, turning his head to look at the screen. The next few photos were blurrier, but even with soft edges, the story was clear. Greg planting a kiss on Mycroft’s cheek; Mycroft’s brow wrinkling in mock disgust; Mycroft turning to Greg in protest, though his eyes were soft and his mouth smiling; Greg kissing away any words; Mycroft’s arm blocking the shot as it came up ostensibly to wind around Greg.

Greg knew they weren’t print quality. He also knew there was no way he would be deleting these images. He vaguely remembered taking the shots, but having them meant he could linger over the details, such as they were in the slightly fuzzy images. They showed the playful Mycroft he was just getting to know, in love and more importantly, being loved. God, he hoped he remembered to back them up before he accidentally deleted them.

“I love you, Gregory,” Mycroft said into the quiet. The words rolled over Greg and he turned his head to press his lips to the side of Mycroft’s face. He felt his heart pulse at the words, the careful certainty behind them. Probably best not to make a big deal of it, though he wanted to cry with relief, hold Mycroft close and make love to him forever.

“Love you too,” he said instead.

“I know,” Mycroft said. “I can see it in these photos.” He paused. “Will you send them to me? All of them?” he waved a hand. “All of these ones.”

Greg knew what he meant – the first one, and this sequence, even though Mycroft would never say aloud that he liked them too. Greg did it right away, and they waited for the ping of Mycroft’s phone together. It was in his pocket, and he reached for it immediately. Greg watched as he opened the message and the attachment, soft eyes roving over the image now on his screen. It was interesting being able to study his face without being examined in return. He was so open when nobody else was around. Greg watched amazement, shy pride, love and the very beginnings of belief flit across his face. Finally, he closed the message.

Without a word to Greg, he thumbed a different button and put the phone to his ear.

Greg frowned – was he making a phone call? Mycroft smiled a little at him but didn’t speak until someone evidently picked up the call at the other end.

“Anthea. I will be returning to London tomorrow. Please schedule a meeting with Her Majesty as a matter of urgency. Yes, at Balmoral if that is her location and she will consent to it. Stress to her secretary the urgency of the matter. You and I will then be unavailable for the remainder of week. We will have more than enough tasks to see us through, I believe. Thank you.”

Greg felt his jaw slacken as he listened to Mycroft. The words were self-assured, but his eyes, still on Greg, showed the apprehension as he arranged a meeting to resign from Her Majesty’s service. As soon as he hung up, Mycroft flung the phone to the floor, his arms coming around Greg at the same moment Greg’s came around him. Greg felt him shaking as his face pressed close, breathing hard into Greg’s neck. They clung to each other, physical contact more reassuring than words could ever be.


	4. Chapter 4

Mycroft’s alarm was jarring, waking them before the sun the following morning. They packed quickly, having needed little for their impromptu trip. The car was on time, of course, and after a quick stop at the bakery for coffee and chocolate croissants they headed for London. Neither spoke much on the long trip; Mycroft found himself dozing as the gentle movement of the car lulled him back towards sleep. His body was now used to many more hours than he had previously required it to run on, he thought drowsily as they approached the hospital. Gregory had not asked if he was coming to the appointment; his assumption was correct, Mycroft would be flying to Aberdeen that morning in order to meet the Queen at Balmoral.

“Good luck with Her Maj,” Gregory said, the teasing overlying the serious expression on his face.

“Thank you, Gregory,” Mycroft replied. “And you with Doctor Phelps.”

Mycroft squeezed Gregory’s hand before he alighted, then directed the driver take him to the Diogenes Club. He was not looking forward to today, for several reasons, not least of which was the trek to Balmoral and home again. Helicopters would never be his favourite mode of transport, but they were the fastest way to get him to and from the airports at either end of his flight.

Sitting back, thinking of Gregory, Mycroft sighed. It certainly gave him strength, keeping Gregory at the forefront of his mind. The trip was quick, as those towards unpleasant tasks often are, and Mycroft realised suddenly he was sitting on a chartered flight to Aberdeen, and the first helicopter ride was behind him. One down three to go, as Gregory would tell him. Looking at his watch, Mycroft figured Gregory would be finished with the doctor and on his way to meet his family.

_11.01am_

_May I assume the meeting with Dr. Phelps went well?_

_110.04am_

_Doc was surprised at my quote drastic action. Everything medically fine._

_Where are you now? xx_

_11.05am_

_En route to Aberdeen._

_11.06am_

_One helicopter down, then? Xx_

_11.08am_

_Precisely._

_11.10am_

_You’ll be back tonight? xx_

_11.12am_

_I will. I anticipate my meeting will take twenty six minutes._

_11.13am_

_Of course you do. ;) xx_

_11.15am_

_Precision is important, Gregory._

_11.17am_

_I know. That’s why I love you. xxx_

_11.20am_

_That’s the only reason?_

_11.21am_

_Of course not! xx_

_11.22am_

_A poor attempt at a joke. My apologies. x_

_11.24am_

_I figured. Just off to meet Mum._

_I hope your meeting goes well. xx_

_11.26am_

_So do I._

_11.29am_

_Call me when you get back to London? I’ll be at my flat. xx_

_11.31am_

_Of course. x_

 

Sitting back, Mycroft slid his phone back into his inner pocket. He should call his own family, considering his plans. He was rarely able to share details of his work, but Christmas would be far more pleasant if he did not have to explain his new employment status and Gregory in the same breath. Plus, he had nothing else to do – Anthea still had his work phone and laptop and his mind needed something to dwell on apart from the reason for his trek to Scotland. There was also the added consideration of his brother. When Sherlock found out about the changes to Mycroft’s life, he would make sure Mummy and Father knew. Better to get in first, to explain himself before Sherlock twisted things to his own purpose. A pang of guilt struck Mycroft as he remembered how he’d omitted his father’s anticipated reaction from his conversation with Gregory. His father would certainly take the new badly, however it came. Mycroft knew it would be difficult, but for the first time in his life, his father’s reaction was not a consideration in his professional decision making. Still, it would be best for Mycroft to control the initial reaction as much as possible. Taking the moment, Mycroft opened his phone and called his mother.

“Mycroft!” she cried delightedly. “So lovely to hear from you!”

“Mummy,” he replied. “How are you?”

He endured a long winded explanation of her current health and local gossip. “And we’ll be in London this week, dear, perhaps you could find time for luncheon with your dear mother?”

“Yes, Mummy,” Mycroft replied. “Of course. As a matter of fact I was calling for precisely the same reason.”

“I beg your pardon?”

Mycroft could hear the astonishment in her voice, and a pang of guilt hit him. He almost never agreed to see his parents while they were in London, let alone rang to arrange a meeting. Work was both a valid reason and a convenient excuse. Well, it used to be. Now, he would have to face them at least this once.

“I have some news,” Mycroft said, cringing at the overused phrase, knowing it meant this conversation would be taking place right now, when he was less prepared, rather than next week in person when he’d had time to consider himself.

“News? Are you ill? Mycroft?”

Mycroft sighed. “No, Mummy.” Where to begin, he thought. “There are several things, as a matter of fact, so if you will allow me a moment to explain.”

“Mycroft!”

“Yes, Mummy. Well. Several weeks ago I was working from home as a safety precaution.” He glossed over as many of the details as possible, while considering which Sherlock would take the most glee in recounting to their mother. “I had a colleague working with me, and we have...” _how to phrase it_ “started seeing each other.”

“Oooh!” Mummy managed convey to her delight, disbelief and gentle censure in the single sound. “And what is this colleague named, if I might ask?”

“His name is Gregory, mother.”

“And will he be coming to luncheon next week?”

Mycroft was grateful to his mother for her careful wording and then complete lack of surprise at Gregory’s sex. He supposed she had wondered over the years whether Mycroft would ever bring home a partner at all. As always, her support was as unconditional as a mothers’ should be and he felt his affection towards her grow. He really should make more of an effort, he censured himself severely.

“I’m not sure of his movements right now,” Mycroft deferred. “He was taken ill last week, a stress related illness, and has made the decision to resign from his current employment.” He took a deep breath. “As have I.”

Silence.

“I beg your pardon?” Mummy said. This time it was straight disbelief, Mycroft noted wryly.

“I am currently flying to Aberdeen in order to meet with Her Majesty,” Mycroft told her, the words very odd to hear. He almost never told anyone where he was going. Not honestly, at least.

“She’s at Balmoral?”

“Obviously,” Mycroft replied, slightly irritated as his mother getting distracted by such an unimportant detail.

“Oh Mycroft,” Mummy sighed.

He couldn’t tell what that meant, especially over the phone. “What is it, Mummy?”

“That’s wonderful.”

“The Queen’s residence at Balmoral?”

“No, Mycroft!” She sounded exasperated. “You’re retiring from that awful job.”

“Awful job?” Mycroft repeated, his own astonishment also evident in his voice.

“Yes!” Mummy exclaimed. “We have barely seen you in the last decade, Mycroft. And when we have seen you, you have been snarky and…and you always look tired. And unhappy.” Her voice softened. “I know you chose politics to please your father. I more than anyone know how dissatisfied he has professed to be with his sons, the proud, foolish man. I also know you have worked yourself beyond endurance to try and please him.”

Mycroft did not reply. He could not have, the lump in his throat precluding speech. He had never heard his mother so openly criticize his father. It had always been euphemisms and empathetic looks, the pull between dutiful wife and protective mother a constant struggle. Perhaps priorities were changing for others in his family, he thought.

“You have never needed to work, Mycroft.” Her voice was almost pleading. “You have chosen it, and you have excelled at it, but you have never been happy in it.”

“We both know that is not Father’s point of view,” Mycroft couldn’t help point out.

“Well,” she said, ignoring the obvious point of contention, “I hope you are choosing something different now.”

“I am, Mummy,” he found himself saying.

“Well I am very pleased for you.”

“Thank you,” Mycroft replied a little dazedly. As if the morning was not surreal enough already.

“I’ll let you go dear, I’m sure the Queen doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”

“No, Mummy. Anthea will contact you to arrange next week.”

“Alright, darling. Bye!”

Mycroft supposed he replaced his phone in his pocket, but his brain was still processing the frankly remarkably conversation he had just had with his mother. He’d always assumed she’d hated his job because it took him away from the family – which had been part of the attraction. She’d been shrewder than he had given her credit for. Even before he’d admitted it to himself, she’d recognised the underlying motivation in his chosen career and the utter soullessness of it, the dry satisfaction and nothing more. Now, he wondered how long she’d thought he was unhappy.

How long _had_ he been unhappy? Mycroft mused on that for a few moments before the stewardess came to inform him they were about to land in Aberdeen. He shook the maudlin thought off as he considered how best to tender his resignation to Her Majesty, the Queen.

+++

“I beg your pardon, Mr. Holmes?”

“I am tendering my resignation from your service, ma’am, effective immediately. I would appreciate it if you would accept my offer.”

“I am surprised, Mr. Holmes.”

“My apologies, Your Majesty,” Mycroft replied.

“Apologies are not necessary, Mr. Holmes. I am not disappointed.” She paused. “May I ask what has prompted such a decision?”

Mycroft hesitated. “A change in priorities, shall we say,” he replied carefully.

She smiled slightly. “The Empire will endure, I believe,” she told him.

“I had recalled that particular conversation in my considerations,” Mycroft ventured.

“I am pleased you did. Do you have a plan for your future?”

Mycroft was honoured she asked. “Not immediately, no,” he replied. “If I might be so bold, Your Majesty, may I extend my sincere gratitude for your employment and hospitality.”

“You may,” she replied regally, with a twinkle in her eye. “I will inform your superiors of my acceptance of your resignation. There will be a period of transition, of course.”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” Mycroft replied immediately. “Thank you, Your Majesty.”

“The Empire is grateful for your service, Mr Holmes,” she replied in a tone that clearly dismissed him.

“Thank you, Your Majesty,” Mycroft said, rising immediately. He managed to get himself back to the helipad without breaking any rules of etiquette, and before he knew it, he was on his way back to Aberdeen Airport.

As the force of the plane’s take-off pressed his head back into the headrest, Mycroft’s mind finally considered the new truth. He was unemployed. He had no job. Well, there were formalities to be observed of course, but broadly speaking, they were formalities designed to terminate his employment.

It was extremely odd, but somehow liberating. The Empire had coped for the weeks he had been absent with little to no notice. She would certainly be fine with the proper transition. Despite himself, Mycroft smiled as they flew over the vast forests of Scotland. He was flying to Gregory. Flying home.

 

_3.16pm_

_I am unemployed. x_

_3.20pm_

_Wonderful news!_

_Still out with mum and Sarah, then to work and out with Sally probably._

_Miss you. xx_

_3.21pm_

_Of course._

_I will speak with Sherlock tonight. x_

_3.23pm_

_Be patient with him, gorgeous. xx_

_3.24pm_

_Yes, Gregory. x_

 

Fine. He wasn’t flying directly to Gregory, but to Sherlock. Not quite as appealing, but the last thing Mycroft wanted was for rumours to spread. Sherlock deserved to hear such news from Mycroft personally, however uncomfortable it might be.


	5. Chapter 5

The Koffee Kup Kafé was the same as Greg remembered it. His mum had loved it for as long as she’d lived here; he had no idea why. The best you could say about the coffee was ‘not terrible’, and the food was similarly average. He suspected it was because she knew the women working there, and they knew her. It was more like visiting a friend, he thought, amused as ‘Kathy’, someone he never recalled meeting, asked about his job and divorce as knowledgably as a close friend might. Greg made a mental image to severely edit the information he gave his mother in the future. Love her dearly though he did, there was something to be said for half the city knowing his business.

“So tell me what’s been happening, Greg,” Lucy said now, shooting her son a pointed look as she scooped the foam off her cappuccino.

“Well, I told you I had the…TIA,” Greg said, avoiding the word stroke at all costs.

“The stroke,” Lucy said, putting the word out there. Right then, Greg thought.

“The self-resolving mini-stroke,” he amended firmly.

“You seem to be fine,” she said, sharp eyes roving over him.

“I am, Mum,” he told her. “Got taken to the best stroke unit in London,” if she was going to use the s-word then so was he, “and saw the head of the unit again this morning. She’s given me the all clear, more or less.”

Lucy frowned. “More or less?” she asked.

“Well, I’m at a slightly higher risk now of a stroke,” Greg told her, stressing the ‘slightly’. “Not that it’s hugely likely, of course. I’m on some medication, nothing too fancy.”

“Surely there are other things you can do. You don’t eat properly, Greg, don’t tell me coffee counts as a food group,” she said severely.

“Yes, Doctor Phelps has given me a list,” Greg admitted. “Which brings me to the rest of my news.”

“There’s more?” Lucy said in surprise.

“Yes.” Greg replied, stirring his coffee unnecessarily. An obvious stalling tactic but he didn’t really care. “Stress is the biggest factor, and my job isn’t exactly relaxed, you know.” He could see the frown forming on her face. Deep breath. “I’ve decided to resign from Scotland Yard.”

For a moment, Greg wondered if he’d broken his mum. She stared at him, open mouthed and frozen for a good ten seconds.

“Resign?” she repeated. “But Greg, you’ve worked so hard…”

“Exactly,” Greg said. “So hard that I don’t sleep properly, I don’t eat well, I barely get any exercise, I drink probably more than I should.” He sighed. “I don’t want to, Mum. You know how much…how much I love the job. But Doctor Phelps made it very clear that if I don’t change my lifestyle pretty dramatically, I might as well not bother with the medication.” “She said that?” Lucy squeaked.

“Almost those exact words, actually,” Greg said. “I don’t have a lot of choice, really. I can’t work part time, I’ve seen the people who’ve tried and it just doesn’t work. It’s not the kind of job where you can just be unavailable for days at a time.” He shrugged. “Believe me, I have looked at every possible scenario, and short of taking a desk job, there’s nothing else for it.”

“And you wouldn’t even consider it?” his mother asked. “You must be close to a proper pension by now, Greg, you’ve been there so long….”

“Yeah, Mum, I know,” Greg replied, the bitterness rising again. He hated having to justify this decision, but she’d worked so hard for him over the years, he felt like she deserved to know at least part of his reasoning. “But I just couldn’t do a desk job, I just…” he trailed off, swallowing the sudden solid mass in his throat. How could he sit there, day after day, watching the others go out to crime scenes, chatting and laughing (okay, grumbling and swearing), but making the kind of bonds you never get unless you’re in it? He loved the late night moments at crime scenes, knowing your team had your back; the camaraderie that only comes from putting your life in the hands of someone, and knowing they are putting their life in yours too. Plus, he’d never be able to go down the pub after shifts, or understand the kind of in jokes that happen when everyone’s tired and stressed at 4am on some drizzly street in some unnamed suburb…

“No, Mum,” Greg said more firmly. “I’m either in or out, you know?’

“Yes,” she said quietly. “I know. I’m so disappointed for you Greg.” She gave him a wobbly smile. “But I’m proud of you, too. Such a grown-up decision.”

“Mum, he protested. “I’m a Detective Inspector. Grown up decision makes me sound like some teenager refusing drugs or something.’

“Well I was proud of you then too,” Lucy told him, unperturbed by his censure. “That Simon Conners was a bad lot.”

“Yeah, I know,” Greg said, and the two of them shared the kind of affectionate look only family and close friends can muster.

“So where exactly have you been these last weeks, then?” Lucy asked him. “Don’t think I’ve forgotten to ask. And I noticed you said you were at the best stroke unit in London – how did that happen?” She gave him a pointed look and he remembered why he’d gone into police work. It was partly because of her attention to detail and how cool he privately thought it was that she could notice things and figure out why. Nothing on Sherlock, of course, but enough to influence a teenage boy with a strong sense of justice, anyway.

“Well, that would be the rest of my news,” Greg told her.

“What, there’s even more?” She asked him. When he nodded, she held up one hand. “I’m going to need more coffee if there’s another story.” He smiled at her and she waved to Kathy, ordering another cappuccino and a muffin. Greg declined both, mindful of what he was eating. The new regimen had started, and he was determined to stick to it. He’d had his two coffees for the day, not to mention a chocolate croissant for breakfast (a detail he’d declined to share with Doctor Phelps).

“Well, he said as Kathy wandered back to start on his mum’s coffee, “I was seconded to MI5 for a few weeks,” no need to go into too much detail there, “and I ended up working closely with someone. We hit it off, and we started seeing each other.”

He paused for the requisite squeal of excitement, with which she obliged, before the torrent of questions. He endured it until the initial wave subsided and she actually stopped for long enough to hear his answers.

“His name is Mycroft,” a raised eyebrow, and he was grateful Mum had met a few earlier boyfriends. One less surprise for her today. “He works for MI5, obviously. I was at his home when the TIA happened, so when he called the ambulance, they took me to the closest hospital, which happens to have the best stroke unit in London.” Greg had no idea how accurate the geography was – Mycroft’s flat wasn’t all that far from St John and St Elizabeth’s, that was true, but he could hardly tell his mother how highly Mycroft was placed in the government. He genuinely wondered if that would be treasonous. Certainly not worth telling a woman who explained the ins and outs of her son’s divorce to the waitress at her local café.

“Anyway, the doctor there wouldn’t release me unless I had someone at home with me, and I didn’t want to be a burden on your or Sarah, so Mycroft offered.” He put up a hand at her well anticipated protestations. “Mum. I was tired, and just wanted to go home. I was perfectly fine, and as much as I love you, you’d have had me in bed with a down comforter and endless hours of Coronation Street.”

She sighed and clucked but he knew she knew it was true – it was the running joke from his childhood. If you were sick enough to stay home, you were too sick to have any say over the TV. Many a day Greg had elected to go to school with a headache or moderate cough to avoid hours and hours of his mum’s favourite program.

“As it was, Mycroft and I wanted to discuss certain details of our relationship anyway.” He took a deep breath. “Look Mum, it’s really important that you don’t talk about it. Tell people I’m seeing someone if you want, even tell them he’s a bloke, you know I don’t mind. But Mycroft’s job is very hush-hush, so you can’t go chatting about it. Or boasting.”

“Well how can I, you haven’t even told me his surname!” she protested.

“Mum, with a name like Mycroft, I hardly need to,” Greg replied. He wondered if Mycroft’s name even came up in Google. Probably not. Or possibly yes with a fake email account and stuff. Either would not surprise him. “Plus, we haven’t decided if or how much we will tell his work about…us,” Greg told her uncomfortably. He hated having this kind of conversation with anyone, let alone his mother – people always had opinions, and he defending himself in this way was always bloody awful.

“As long as you’re happy dear,” Lucy said in such a perfect imitation of Greg’s grandmother he sat up, startled.

“Mum,” he protested, grinning despite himself. Granny had been well known for that phase, which was almost always followed up with her antiquated point of view and several moments of awkward advice.

Lucy grinned back at him. “It’s your life, Greg,” she said to him. “Be happy.”

“Thanks, Mum,” Greg replied, relieved. Granny’s tirades were not something he wanted to relieve, even as a joke.

“So you just recuperated at Mycroft’s flat, then?” Lucy asked.

“Actually he has a house in the country, we spent most of the time down there,” Greg told her. “Talked about some options, what I might do now, that kind of thing.”

“A house in the country!” Lucy said. “If he’s rich enough you can just mooch off him, then.”

The sarcastic comment was so unlike his mother that Greg let out a snort of laughter. “He offered, actually,” he said just to see her mouth drop open as he knew it would. “His family is beyond rich, from what I can tell.” He shrugged. ”You know I’d never go for that.”

“Of course you wouldn’t. Go crazy without something to do!” Lucy said fondly. Greg knew she was proud of how hard he’d worked at school and then the academy to get himself set up. He felt a sharp pang at her disappointment once again. He hoped she didn’t feel like he was throwing it away.

“He’s offered to get me an interview in a Government job,” Greg told her, editing heavily. “Something even part time, maybe, but definitely lower stress. A nine to fiver, probably.”

“Oh, well that’s good, isn’t it?” Lucy replied carefully. Greg could feel her watching for his reply.

“Yeah,” he said, trying to sound enthusiastic. “Yeah, I mean it’s really good of him.”

An awkward silence descended as Greg wondered how much of his new job he’d want to tell him mum about. Could they fire him before he started? Fortunately the stars aligned and before he was forced into small talk, his sister arrived.

“Sarah!” he exclaimed, disproportionately pleased to see her.

“Hey, Greg, you’re still kicking, then?” she asked, taking off her scarf and grinning at him.

“Always,” he replied, enfolding her in a hug. He knew he’d be about to have the exact same conversation with her as he’s just had with his mother but somehow it would be easier this time. He and Sarah had always been close, and there was a good chance she’d read between the lines in the careful silences – certainly in the ‘quiet time’ he’d spent with Mycroft over the past few weeks.

“So tell me everything,” Sarah said as usual, dropping a kiss on her mother’s cheek before seating herself.

“New boyfriend, had a not-stroke, quit my job,” Greg said.

“Right, glad that’s clear then,” Sarah said. “A little more for the nosy ones, ta.”

Greg grinned. Whatever else changed, his sister would always be the same. He took a deep breath and prepared to answer every question under the sun about his last two months.

+++

Several hours later, Greg and Sally sat in the local pub. He’d just spoken to his immediate superior, who’d been shocked at his news.

“Christ, Greg, tell me you’re joking,” she’d groaned. That moment had been more reassurance of his worth than any of the meetings he’d had with her in the two years she’d been his DCI. He knew there was always pressure from above, but Cassie was more likely to mutter, “Good one,” when you’d done something incredible than offer empty platitudes. No ongoing encouragement or recognition of effort without results. It wasn’t malicious or deliberately cold; it was just her way, and Greg understood that. An occasional pat on the back was good for morale, though. Pity it had to come now, he thought to himself.

“Unless you can guarantee me part time with no overtime,” Greg said, his voice sympathetic, “and we both know that doesn’t work unless I’m driving a desk.” His tone of voice made it clear that wasn’t an option.

“Seriously, though?” she said. “You can’t be that far off a decent pension, Greg.”

“I know,” Greg replied, ignoring the tempting pull and flare of irritation. Everyone seemed to be more interested in his pension than his health. “But I can’t drive a desk, Chief, you know what that’s like.”

“I do,” she replied, and Greg wondered if he was about to cop a reprimand, until she added, “and it’s shit, you’re right.”

“Sorry,” he said, not really knowing why.

“Don’t be,” she said. “Better this than work yourself into an early grave.”

“That’s what the doc said,” Greg replied, “after I almost had a stroke two weeks ago,” sucking the attempted levity from her statement.

She visibly paled, checking for a joke before muttering, “Christ, Greg.”

“Exactly,” Greg replied.

“So what are you going to do?” she asked. “Assuming you’ve thought about it.”

“Not much else to do in the last couple of weeks,” Greg replied, ignoring the image of Mycroft sprawled across the bed, naked and flushed from certain alternative activities. “I’ve been offered a couple of interviews for part time stuff.” He was deliberately evasive. Cassie was either very savvy or very preoccupied with her newest problem – filling the vacant DI position.

“Two weeks, then?” She asked him. “Turn in your badge and gun at the very last, of course.”

“Well,” Greg replied, “I thought I’d put this on the table.” She raised one eyebrow. “I’ll come in and finish up the paperwork on cases we’ve wrapped up, I’ll brief whoever takes over my active cases, even mentor a bit if you get someone green.” He grinned as she rolled her eyes at the idea of a brand new DI on her team. The extra work was always a pain even for the best of newly promoted Inspectors. “In return, I’ll effectively finish today. No new cases. I’ll have time to do some of that crappy admin stuff nobody ever does, but I’ll be leaving right on the dot of five, Monday to Friday. Doctor’s orders.”

Greg sat back while she considered his offer. It was a good deal for her. There wasn’t much point in him taking on new cases with such a short time remaining, and there was rarely enough time for proper briefing when cases were redistributed, so it would smooth the way considerably to have him doing it before he left. Plus he would almost certainly have time to do the worst admin jobs – chasing signatures and lost transcripts of interviews, following up with victims after convictions had been won. The stuff nobody wanted to do. It would make her look good at her next review to have the backlog somewhat cleared, and it would be far less stressful for him.

“Deal,” she said eventually.

“Right,” he said, rising and reaching to shake her hand.

“If you have any suggestions for your replacement,” Cassie said, “I’d be glad to hear it.”

“I’ll put in a formal recommendation for Sally Donovan,” Greg replied immediately. “She’s been alright, has she?”

“Better than alright,” Cassie said, “but don’t tell her I said that.”

“Of course not,” Greg replied, grinning.

“You’ll be missed, you know,” she told him. “Two weeks from tonight’s gonna be a farewell of course.”

“Of course,” he replied. “Tell whoever does the present not to buy booze, okay?”

“No drinking?” Cassie exclaimed, and Greg shrugged. “Bloody hell,” she muttered, and Greg chuckled at he left her office.

He’d checked his watch – close enough to clocking off – and basically kidnapped Sally off to the pub. She hadn’t been too upset, and now they sat in a booth, pint of bitter for her, tonic and lime for him.

“What the hell’s been going on?” Sally had asked as soon as they sat down and she’d stopped gaping at his drink. Greg gave her the condensed, unclassified version – he was getting better at it after telling the story twice to his family then again to Cassie Henrikson – then waited for the questions to begin.

“Fuck,” she said, drinking deeply as her mind worked. “So you and Mycroft, then?”

Greg snorted. “That’s the most important point out of that whole story?”

“No,” Sally said, “But it’s the most interesting.” She grinned at him. “You look pretty good for someone who almost died.”

Greg rolled his eyes. “I didn’t almost die. Even if I hadn’t gone to hospital I wouldn’t have died.”

“Seriously, boss.” She winced. “Won’t be calling you that for much longer.”

“No,” Greg said, and they sipped contemplatively. The tonic was no match for a pint, he thought wistfully.

“I’ve heard good things about you, though,” he told her.

“Really?” she asked. A tiny grin escaped, directed at her beer.

“Don’t tell Henrikson I told you, but she reckons you’ve been doing good,” Greg said. “You’d better put you hand up for my job, hate for my recommendation to go to waste.”

She stared at him speechlessly for a long moment before muttering, “Bloody hell,” and downing half her remaining pint.

“Yeah,” he said. After another minute he said carefully, “You and Sherlock seem to have been less,” he waved one hand vaguely in the air, “you know, lately.”

“Watson’s good for him,” Sally replied. “He’s less,” she deliberately imitated his hand motion, “you know.”

“I do,” Greg replied. “I’m going to talk to him at some point. I reckon if you called him he’d come to your scenes.” He gave her a look that was only half severe. “You’d have to be semi-polite, you know. But you know he’s the real deal.”

She shrugged, but Greg knew the idea would kick around in her head. Not worth pushing it, but at least it was there. He’d have to make sure she had Sherlock’s number before he went. And the torrent of emails he’d sent Greg at one point, outlining his parameters for an ‘acceptably challenging case’.

“Anyway, the place hasn’t fallen apart since I’ve been gone,” he said. “What’s been happening?”

They settled into the comfortable rhythm of office gossip, and Greg relished the conversation. He knew there wouldn’t be too many more. He’d be welcome at Friday drinks, of course, but inevitably the personnel would change, the in-jokes would move on without him, and he’d be less and less comfortable. Maybe he and Sally would keep meeting occasionally; he’d like to keep in touch, especially if she got the DI position and wanted some out-of-office advice about the politics and balance of managing personalities and higher expectations. As he listened to Sally complaining about Anderson again, though, Greg knew it was the beginning of the end of his life with Scotland Yard.


	6. Chapter 6

For all Mycroft’s anxiety about his meeting with the Queen, sitting outside 221 Baker Street was somehow even more nerve wracking. In many ways, his meeting with the Queen had unfolded exactly as he had predicted. She said exactly what he would have rationally expected, had he been thinking rationally, and she was hardly going to refuse to accept his resignation. Sherlock, however, was a different situation all together. He’d already put it off, stopping for a meal at his club on the way under the guise of freshening up after so much travel. It was hard to believe he’d woken this morning in Gregory’s arms in Kingston. It felt like a world away from here, sitting in his car bracing himself to meet with his brother.

Anthea had sent Mycroft a file detailing Sherlock’s activities over the last weeks, since his house arrest had begun. He and John had been confined to the secure building, which Sherlock rallied furiously against, of course. It appeared that Anthea had taken on the task of visiting the younger Holmes brother personally, both to bring he and John essentials (such as Sherlock’s violin and their preferred blend of tea) and to ensure Sherlock had not simply opened a window and vacated the premises. Mycroft felt oddly comforted by this detail. Anthea was more astute than he had given her credit for, because whatever she had said, Sherlock had settled down and stopped him causing mayhem.

The first week had been the most difficult, from the look of things; Anthea reported multiple breaches of security throughout the days and nights. Security had been placed at every entrance to the building and it appeared Sherlock had given up in the end. Anthea certainly had gone to an extensive effort to bring the men whatever they asked for – from specific editions of books to food items to…lube? Mycroft’s eyes stuttered and re-read that line of the itemised list. Well. It appeared that Sherlock and John had finally realised what had been plainly obvious from the first time Mycroft had seen them together. Perhaps it was that which had dampened Sherlock’s desire to escape? The requested date of that personal item (Mycroft could not think of his brother and the word ‘lube’ in the same thought) certainly coincided with a marked drop in the number of attempted escapes as well as the general level of chaos reported. Far fewer disruptions to surveillance, both inside and out of the flat. From the report, Mycroft could see Anthea had used her discretion, ensuring surveillance on entrances was ongoing while leaving internal video and audio disabled. A mental review of the activities he and Gregory had committed to in the non-bed-rooms of his own flat made Mycroft extremely glad he was not the one who had to review those particular recordings.

So. Sherlock and John were together. Seeing each other? Whatever the term they preferred, it equated to a deeper relationship, which Mycroft could not fault. John’s presence had already had a marked improvement on his brother’s temperament, both professionally and personally. Tasman gang aside, Mycroft reminded himself wryly. Of course none of this reassured him sufficiently to appease the disquiet in his stomach. Sherlock’s behaviour had always been curbed somewhat by Mycroft’s influence – not that anyone could tell, with the cleaning up Mycroft still needed to do in the wake of his brother’s antics. If Greg’s contacts at NSY were unwilling to work with him, and Sherlock’s behaviour veered across the line of the law, Mycroft might not be able to save him from himself any longer.

Closing his eyes and taking a deep breath, Mycroft pictured Greg’s face, smiling encouragingly at him. He pulled the remembered scent of Gregory into his lungs, girding his loins for the confrontation ahead. Taking a final second to compose himself, Mycroft opened the car door, ready to face his brother.

“Brother,” Sherlock greeted him as he walked into 221b. To Mycroft’s surprise, Sherlock held out a glass of Scotch. Unprecedented hospitality. The fire was also lit, though it had burned low.

“No thank you,” Mycroft said, delivering a surprise equal to his own, from the look on Sherlock’s face. “Is John not home?”

“He’s…somewhere boring,” Sherlock said, waving one hand in the air. He dropped back into his chair, eyes raking over Mycroft, before he frowned. “Why have you been…to Scotland?”

Mycroft sighed. They were starting at the end. The snarky reply, ‘Can’t you tell?’ was on the tip of his tongue, but he bit it off. The purpose of his visit was not to score points off his brother. That part of their life was over, at least to him. Change in priorities, indeed, he said to himself.

“I had to see her Majesty as a matter of urgency,” he replied. “To cut to the chase, Sherlock, it concerns Gregory Lestrade.”

“Lestrade?” Sherlock repeated. “God, he hasn’t gotten himself married again or anything, has he?”

“And congratulations are in order for yourself and John, I can see,” Mycroft retorted, looking pointedly at the reduced distance between their chairs and Sherlock’s oddly neat desk. It was satisfying Sherlock had not deduced his relationship with Gregory. Mycroft was honest enough about Sherlock’s abilities to realise he must be distracted indeed to miss what must be so blindingly obvious.

“Do go on, or you’ll be here all night,” Sherlock prompted him, lifting his chin defiantly.

“Indeed,” Mycroft murmured. “After careful consideration, I have resigned from Her Majesty’s service. Hence my trip to Balmoral today.”

For the first time since Mycroft could remember, Sherlock was entirely still and silent while still being conscious and sober. “You’ve…what?” he said blankly.

“I have resigned. Effective immediately, debriefing and handover notwithstanding. You should also know that, due to recent health issues, Gregory has been forced to resign from Scotland Yard.”

Sherlock did not move.

Mycroft sighed. “Gregory assures me he will encourage his successor to ask you to consult on cases. It is likely to be Sally Donovan.”

Sherlock moved finally, to snort derisively, his most savage expression on his pale face. “I doubt someone who uses ‘Freak’ as both a name and an insult would be calling for advice,” he replied, practically spitting the last word at his brother.

“I understand you are taking on an increasing number of independent cases, Sherlock. Are police matters really necessary?”

It was the wrong thing to say, Mycroft knew immediately.

“It is a matter of necessity, as you put it so clearly,” Sherlock replied, whirling to face Mycroft. “What does my brain care where the puzzles come from? Half these private matters are ‘oh, find my lost dog,’ and ‘why can’t I see Jesus in my toast anymore?’ Nothing worth getting out of bed for!”

He paced, the agitation in his gait worrying his brother.

“And now you tell me even the occasional classified cases will be denied me!”

“Sherlock, my resignation has nothing to do with you.”

“Of course it does!” Sherlock raged, running his hands through his hair. His eyes had not looked so wild since Mycroft had cornered him one day long ago, the withdrawal at its brutal height. Mycroft was lucky to have found Sherlock that day, from all medical reports. His brother had never felt the same way about the incident, seeing Mycroft’s actions as interfering once more in his own life; an abuse of his power. Sherlock had always been open about his view of his older brother as a single minded pursuant of power for its own pleasure. Despite his own issues with their father, Sherlock had never tried to understand Mycroft’s attempt to gain favour, instead seeing the ambition as a desire for personal gain.

“You’ve never cared about anything except you precious work and your precious power, and now all of a sudden you’re changing your mind? I don’t think so, Mycroft.”

“As I have repeatedly tried to explain, Sherlock, my efforts to advance professionally…” Mycroft broke off as his brother threw himself petulantly onto the sofa, turning his back. Mycroft sighed. He’d always been deeply ashamed of his true motivation to advance professionally, never being completely honest with himself until recently, when brutal introspection seemed to be the order of the moment. As it currently sat, he was painfully aware of his poor attempts to explain to Sherlock. If only Sherlock’s sharp eyes could see through the fugue of bitterness and rage to Mycroft’s true motivation, it might be easier.

“Sherlock.” Mycroft said, preparing himself to try again. His brother did not move. “My motivation has never been to advance for personal gain.” How to put it into words… “You are aware of Father’s disappointment in both of us. My choice to pursue politics was an attempt to gain his approval.” The words tasted bitter, an open admission of his failure. Mycroft’s mouth turned up in a mirthless smile, a silent action lost on Sherlock’s resolutely turned back. “Clearly the effort has been futile.” He wondered if Sherlock was listening, was now thinking of the previous Christmas, an atrocity of stony silences and cruel comments, their mother visibly distressed by the open hostility.

Shaking his head, Mycroft moved on, wondering if his words were worth speaking, if Sherlock was even hearing him. “My priorities are now-”

“You priorities should still be family!” Sherlock snarled at him, voice low and fierce. He sprang from the sofa, body taut as his violin’s bowstrings. For a moment Mycroft thought he would strike out; instead he stalked into his bedroom and slammed the door, the whole flat shaking with the impact. When his frozen limbs finally relaxed, Mycroft sank silently into his brother’s chair, watching the fire burn low until the footsteps on the stairs marked John’s return home.

“Good evening, John,” Mycroft said as the doctor stepped into the sitting room.

“Mycroft,” John replied warily, eyes darting around the room.

“Have you recovered from your incarceration?” Mycroft asked politely. The blush on John’s cheeks gave the game away, even if Mycroft hadn’t been so adept as reading people.

“Yes,” John said shortly.

“Yes, I understand from Sherlock that you and he have…expanded your relationship,” Mycroft said delicately.

“Yeah,” John said. He cocked his head at Mycroft. “I understand you and Greg have done the same.”

Mycroft’s eyebrow rose in astonishment.

“I ran into Greg outside the pub,” John explained, seating himself opposite Mycroft. “Went to pass on some information to Donovan for Sherlock, Greg was there. We had a pint.”

 _Or two,_ Mycroft thought to himself. “Indeed we have,” Mycroft said smoothly. “I would prefer if you do not tell Sherlock right now. He has other things to consider at the moment.”

John raised one eyebrow but did not comment on Sherlock’s lack of deduction. Nor did he commit either way.

“Greg tells me he’s resigned,” John said, leaning back against the kitchen bench after checking the surface.

“He’s had some health issues,” Mycroft replied carefully. He was only sharing even this much because he knew Gregory and John were friends; otherwise Gregory’s personal business would never be a topic of conversation he would be comfortable discussing.

“Yeah, he told me. TIA,” John replied.

Mycroft felt better that Gregory had admitted this much to John. “Yes,” Mycroft replied. “Fortunately there should be no lasting effects.”

John nodded. After a few moments of silence, he asked bluntly, “Why are you here?”

“I came here to tell Sherlock of Gregory’s resignation,” Mycroft said. He considered his words carefully. “He did not take it well.”

“Ah,” John replied, his eyes flicking to Sherlock’s closed bedroom door. Mycroft nodded when he raised a questioning eyebrow, silently asking if Sherlock was sulking in there.

“He was also surprised and unhappy to learn that I too have tendered my resignation and will no longer be serving Her Majesty,” Mycroft went on.

John’s expression changed far more dramatically than Sherlock’s, and he waited patiently while the doctor pulled himself together enough to ask, “What?”

“There are a number of personal reasons,” Mycroft told him, “however it remains true. I have travelled to Balmoral today to speak to Her Majesty in person, and will begin the process of handing over my portfolio immediately.”

“So Sherlock…” John trailed off.

“I believe his upset stems from his belief that I am turning my back on my familial obligations, specifically to him,” Mycroft said, keeping as much emotion as possible from his voice. “I am, of course, concerned that without access to police cases, and with his security clearance significantly lowered he will…struggle.” Mycroft found it difficult to put the enormity of that into words, but John seemed to understand.

“Right,” he said.

“I won’t be at liberty to protect his less legal behaviours,” Mycroft said, wanting to be absolutely clear to John about where his concerns lay.

“I understand,” John said. He was a far quicker study when it came to Sherlock than the rest of the world, Mycroft noted. It was comforting, actually, to know that as blind as John might be to anyone else, he saw with perfect vision when it came to Sherlock.

“I’ll take care of it,” John told him. “Exactly how much influence will you have?”

“There are favours owed, of course,” Mycroft said, “and a certain number of associates who might consider acting in my favour in memory of previous alliances.” He paused. “Comparatively, however, my reach will be limited.”

“Right,” John said again. He hesitated before saying, “Thanks, Mycroft.”

“Do take care of him,” Mycroft said quietly, uncrossing his legs as he stood. “Despite his belief, I am well aware of the effect this decision may have on Sherlock, and it almost dissuaded me entirely.”

“Don’t worry,” John said, “We’ll be okay.”

“Do call me if you need to,” Mycroft said hesitantly, uncertain if John would or not.

“Yep,” John said, and Mycroft was impressed with his ability to be confident without giving away his intention.

“Good evening, then, John.”

“See you later, Mycroft.”

With a sigh of relief, Mycroft sank into the seat of his car. He pulled out his phone before the car took off.

_8.53pm_

_Are you at home?_

_8.57pm_

_Yep. Just walked in._

_Love some company. xx_

_9.00pm_

_Are you sure?_

_9.03pm_

_Miss you._

_Want to hear about your day. Want to tell you about mine._

_Come over. Please. xx_

_9.04pm_

_Ten minutes. Xx_

Mycroft gave the driver Gregory’s address without another second’s pause. He settled back, closing his eyes. Finally, he was on his way to Gregory.


	7. Chapter 7

Greg stretched, feeling oddly…sober. Returning from the pub was usually a fuzzy affair, with several attempts at the key-in-lock necessity and messy teeth brushing if he was more sober than usual. All a few tonic-and-limes had done was send him to the loo a couple of times, which was par for the course with beer, anyway. The warmth that coursed through him was at the thought of Mycroft coming over, rather than the alcohol. It wasn’t a bad change, he had to admit. Nice to be able to navigate his flat without veering into a wall at least.

He opened his fridge, staring at the contents. It seemed pretty fresh, which was …weird? Hadn’t Anthea apparently filled his fridge before they’d…Greg shook his head, grinning at his slow brain. Of course. Anthea would probably be pretty pissed at him by now – filling his fridge, then emptying it and now from the look of it, filling it again. He grabbed some milk, flicking on the kettle, slightly regretting eating at the pub with John. He’d ordered a steak with vegetables, which had been fine, but it would have been nice to cook. He wondered if Mycroft had eaten. It was fairly late by their usual standards but at least there were ingredients if he wanted something.

The kettle boiled just as there was a knock at the door. Greg hastened to open it, the smile blooming in anticipation. As the door opened and he saw Mycroft, the first thing that registered was relief, then happiness, then… “Christ, you look done in.”

Mycroft nodded, allowing Greg to take his coat. Without asking Greg also took his jacket and tie, undoing one more button than was probably strictly necessary.

“Shoes too,” Greg said, kneeling down so he could see to the laces. When it was done he stood, sliding hands up the sides of Mycroft’s legs and then torso, slipping into a hug. “Hey,” he said quietly, holding the tense form gently. It took a lot of slow breaths before he felt Mycroft begin to relax. Finally his arms came up around Greg, and he sighed, releasing the last of the tension.

“Thank you,” Mycroft said quietly.

“Long day,” Greg said, more of a statement than a question. “Bed or tea?”

“Both?” Mycroft asked hopefully.

“Kettle’s just boiled,” Greg said. He pointed through a doorway. “Why don’t you get sorted, have a shower if you like. I won’t ask how but there are clean sheets and towels and your bag is on the bed.” He kissed Mycroft lightly before stepping back. “I’ll make the tea.”

Affection rose in his heart as he watched Mycroft shuffle towards the bedroom. Christ, he’d had a huge day, from the look of it. At the very least, he’d driven from Kingston to London, taken a helicopter and plane to see the Queen and resign (and back again), and spoken to Sherlock, who from John’s account, had no idea of any of the news Mycroft was about to break to him. As the kettle re-boiled he swapped out the black tea bags with camomile (clearly Anthea’s choice – he’d never bought herbal tea in his life). Picking up the mugs he padded into the bedroom, heart leaping to see Mycroft tucked up in bed, eyes closed as he leaned against the headboard.

“Tea,” he said unnecessarily, not wanting to startle Mycroft.

“Thank you,” Mycroft murmured. His eyes remained closed but he extended one arm to Greg in mute appeal.

“Please tell me you don’t have to work tomorrow,” Greg asked him.

“Anthea will take a personal day, as will I,” Mycroft murmured tiredly.

Greg hummed in approval. “Now,” he said, lifting the covers and settling next to Mycroft, “tell me about your day.”

+++

Mycroft took both steps across the kitchen, filling the kettle and turning to survey the tiny room. He’d barely seen it the night before, his exhaustion being what it was, but he could now see why Greg had been so delighted to cook in his, much larger, kitchen. This room was tiny, with an oven both smaller and older than Mycroft’s. It was very clean though, and Mycroft sensed it was often-used despite its size. It was clearly a well-used and well-cared for space. Mycroft was just considering how much more comfortable this kitchen was, despite its modesty, when he heard footsteps in the hall.

“Good morning,” Gregory murmured, still buttoning his shirt as he walked into the kitchen. Mycroft watched him step across to the refrigerator and take out the milk. He could pass it to Mycroft without moving.

“I know, it’s tiny,” Gregory said, grinning.

Mycroft winced. “I apologise,” he began, but Gregory cut him off.

“Don’t,” he said, an amused little grin on his face. “It is tiny, nothing compared to your kitchen.” He looked around with something between affection and resignation. “This is what a DI’s wage gets you this close to inner London.”

“You are welcome to take advantage of my kitchen whenever you chose, Gregory,” Mycroft murmured. His heart fluttered as Gregory shuffled over to stand close, the amused smile back on his face.

“There are many things I would like to take advantage of, Mycroft Holmes,” he murmured, tracing his nose along Mycroft’s cheek. The gentle touch made Mycroft draw a sharp breath; he felt his face tingle as Gregory pressed their skin together. They had laid together in the half dark last night, talking about their days, kissing and touching slowly. The slide of skin had been comforting, reminding Mycroft that he was no longer alone in his dark moments. Gregory was there with him, listening to his fears and worries, soothing them away without expectation. To Mycroft’s immense relief Gregory had understood when the subject of Mycroft’s father had come up, trembling words desperately hoping he would not be angry. Of course he wasn’t, listening quietly before pulling Mycroft close and kissing his temple. They had fallen asleep with the lamps still on, limbs entwined. There had been no mention of anything remotely sexual, and Mycroft knew the gentle humour now was not a pointed comment at last night’s chaste moments.

“Like my kitchen, of course,” Mycroft replied finally, smiling.

“Amongst other things,” Gregory agreed. “Thank you for your kind offer.” There was a touch of mocking in his voice, though the gentle kisses he was now pressing down Mycroft’s throat eased the tone.

“Do you think you’ll remain here?” Mycroft asked, working hard to keep his voice steady. He knew Gregory would be able to feel the pulse thrumming in his neck; soft lips were pressing hard against the side of his throat.

“In this flat?” Gregory said, the words reverberating against Mycroft’s neck.

“Yes,” Mycroft exhaled. He wasn’t entirely sure if he was answering Gregory’s question or encouraging him; possibly, both.

“Don’t know,” Gregory murmured, working his way up, nuzzling his rough fuzz under Mycroft’s ear until he squirmed. “Depends on how MI5 goes, I guess.”

“Mmmm,” Mycroft replied. He wasn’t entirely certain what Gregory had been talking about, but the sensation of his lips and teeth worrying at Mycroft’s ear was far too distracting to pay any attention to his words. His mind was drifting off, the waves of pleasure carrying him pleasantly away from the world. With a chuckle, Gregory slowly lightened his kisses until only his hot breath was caressing Mycroft’s skin.

“I have no idea what I’m going to do,” Gregory murmured. His arms came around Mycroft until they were embracing against the kitchen bench. “Whatever it is, I hope it’s with you.”

Mycroft shuddered at the raw honesty in Gregory’s tone. He pulled him closer, squeezing him as tightly as he was able, his heart swelling, pressing his throat closed against any words he could utter. It seemed Gregory understood though, because they stood in the silent kitchen, holding each other and breathing deeply.

 “Probably should put the kettle on again,” Gregory murmured finally.

Mycroft roused himself from the stupor that had overcome his mind, reluctantly allowing Gregory to step away from him. Even that small space felt like too much distance. He busied himself with the kettle for something to do with his hands.

“Your parents will be expecting you,” Gregory said. The simple words doused any lingering heat and Mycroft nodded.

“I should get dressed,” he said, looking down at yesterday’s shirt and trousers in which he was attired. “I’ll have to stop at my flat for a clean suit.”

“Yeah,” Gregory smirked, making the tea. His eyes roamed over Mycroft, clearly appreciating what he saw. “I mean, I can’t believe you even dressed in that shirt.” The gentle teasing was new, a softer and somehow caring rendition of the same tone from so long ago, delivered without the stinging rebuke he’d learned to expect from his Father.

“Will you come?” Mycroft opened his mouth and the words flowed out, from heart to lips with no thought in between. “With me, today. Will you come?” The phrasing was awkward, the sentences stilted as he realised what he was asking. Mycroft felt his face flush, his eyes turning away as he watched Gregory understand. He opened his mouth to retract the words, to release Gregory from the obligation he’d just put on him. Gregory, however, beat him to it.

“Of course I will,” Gregory said. His smile was easy and genuine, and it filled Mycroft’s heart to bursting.

“Really?” Mycroft found himself asking.

“Yeah,” Gregory replied, a lilt of surprise in his voice. “Anything for you, gorgeous.”

“Well, Gregory,” Mycroft said, forcing the words out his dry mouth, “in that case we will both need to change.”

“Indeed,” Gregory replied, the smirk clear as he employed Mycroft’s often used reply.

+++

“They weren’t that bad,” Gregory consoled as they drove away from the restaurant.

“Mummy was very gracious,” Mycroft allowed, his face flushing again at the memory of his father’s behaviour. He’d dominated the conversation, belittling the magnitude of Mycroft’s life changes while trying to ingratiate himself with Gregory. At the same time, he tacitly ignored all comments that hinted at their personal relationship, managing to sneer at Mycroft while attempting to bond along the manly lines of football and his assumption that Gregory’s job entailed physical authority. Since an early age, Mycroft had known of his father’s disappointment in his lack of physical prowess; from shy, overweight boy to a more self-assured but physically unimposing man. The professional part of him had to admire his father’s subtle skill; his ability to imply different things to each of his guests was impressive. The rest of Mycroft, though, was somewhere between rage and humiliation that Gregory should have to endure such a period of time. Why, why did Mycroft invite him, when he could so easily have kept his impulsive mouth shut?

“You know what, though?” Gregory said now, gently pulling Mycroft out of his self-recriminations. When Mycroft finally met his eyes, Gregory smiled. “Now that I’ve met them once, it will be much easier to avoid next time.”

Mycroft smiled a little in return. “Mummy does spend time in London alone,” he ventured. “It would be reasonably straightforward to see her.” _Without him,_ he didn’t say.

“She’s very supportive,” Gregory said. Mycroft’s heart flooded at Gregory’s tact. He’d obviously seen right through Father’s attempts at joviality to the mean spirited jibes below.

“She is acutely aware of our differences,” Mycroft admitted. “He has always been open about his frustrations with Sherlock and I, as you can see, and she has always endeavoured to temper his disappointment.”

Gregory hummed in response, and Mycroft could read his discontent.

“Today was actually the closest she’s come to choosing sides.” Mycroft tried to explain. “Without her influence he is far less…subtle.”

“Less subtle?” Gregory asked, disbelief on his face. “How the hell could he be less subtle?”

There would be a time to explain the farce that had been last Christmas, but now was not that time. “It’s fine,” Mycroft murmured. “It is the same as it always has been, and I suspect, the same as it always will be.”

“Doesn’t mean I like it,” Gregory replied.

“Nor I.”

“But if your mum can change, maybe there’s hope.” Gregory added. Mycroft’s look of outright incredulity made him snort with laughter. “Right, well,” Gregory said, his tone clearly changing the subject. “If I’m going to be cooking in that kitchen of yours, I’ll need to stop at home for a few things.”

“Certainly,” Mycroft replied. The implication – that Gregory would be making himself at home – tugged a smile to his lips, and he felt Gregory’s hand tighten over his.

“That’s what I’m looking for,” Gregory murmured. “Now, what do you fancy for tea tonight?”


	8. Chapter 8

“I called Roger while you were in the shower,” Mycroft’s voice drifted in from the kitchen. Greg was settled on the sofa in the sitting room, nursing an excellent mug of tea. It was a change from the Scotch or beer he’d usually be having, but it wasn’t terrible. The discomfort of change was always rough, but he knew the habit would fade with time. At the very least, it was the most expensive tea he’d ever drunk – probably – and was subtle and light. Of course Mycroft would have excellent taste in tea, Gregory thought with amusement.

“Who’s Roger?” he asked now, as Mycroft came through with his own mug. He sat next to Greg, close enough to press their thighs together.

“My contact at MI5,” Mycroft replied. “He sounded extremely interested in setting up a meeting with either or both of us.”

“So you’ve decided, then?” Greg asked, trying to sound casual. “You’re going to go for a job with them?”

“Please, Gregory,” Mycroft said, “I would hardly be ‘going for a job’. It’s a matter of the terms they are willing to offer. Should they be suitable, I would deign to offer them my services. On a part time basis, of course.”

“Of course,” Greg agreed, a twinkle in his eye. “And what about me?”

“He hid it reasonably well, and it is more difficult to tell over the phone,” Mycroft replied, “but as I suspected, he is extremely interested in speaking with you about potential roles with them.”

“And you mentioned the part time thing?” Greg asked. It sounded odd, a grown man wanting to work part time; he wasn’t sure how they’d take such a caveat.

“Of course,” Mycroft replied easily. “Honestly, Gregory, it is likely we could walk in together and tell them we wanted to work every second Tuesday to Thursday and only in London and they would at least consider granting it.”

“Seriously?” Greg replied in surprise. “Christ, they must be desperate.”

“No, they are discerning,” Mycroft told him. “We are desirable employees, Gregory – trained investigators with high security clearances, clean records and solid psychological evaluations. The fact that you are familiar with law enforcement procedures, interview techniques and the awful things people can do to each other works in your favour as well.” He waved one hand in the air. “And on top of all that, we are interested in doing more of the same.”

“Wow, I should get you to write my resume,” Greg said. “Make me sound like some kind of superhero!”

“Ah, but you are,” Mycroft purred. He placed his mug on the side table, took Greg’s and turned to him. “Able to turn me on with a single glance.”

Greg couldn’t help chuckling at the ridiculous paraphrase, leaning his head back to allow Mycroft to kiss more of his neck. If that was a criterion for superhero, he thought dazedly, Mycroft certainly qualified.

“I am interested to see exactly how much they are willing to bend to my demands, as well,” Mycroft admitted as he nudged under Greg’s collar. “Power is such an interesting tool.”

 “Yeah,” Greg agreed, not really paying attention. Talking was only preventing Mycroft from doing that excellent thing he was doing with his mouth, and Greg really wanted him to keep doing that instead of talking. Turning, he wound his fingers into Mycroft’s hair. Yes, this was much better than the talking.

“Bed?” Mycroft suggested.

“Bed.” Greg agreed. Definitely a superhero.

+++

“Into work?” Greg asked, rolling over as Mycroft slipped out of the bed. It was early, still dark. Far too early certainly to be getting up without a very good reason.

“I am meeting Anthea quite early,” Mycroft agreed quietly. “Best to wrap things up as soon as possible.”

“Yeah,” Greg said. “God forbid something big happens while you’re still working there, you’d have to fly off to some mysterious location at the drop of a hat.”

“Precisely,” Mycroft said, his voice warm and amused. “Besides, I have to ask her…”

“What?” Greg asked, eyes glinting with interest.

“Well,” Mycroft said, his own eyes sparkling as he watched Greg’s avid interest in his story, “I have been contemplating the circumstances under which our relationship began. When you were brought here, Anthea informed me there were no other options. In my surprise I did not question her.”

“You mean,” Greg interrupted with delight, “you were so excited at the prospect of having my irresistible self cornered in your flat that you didn’t want her to change her mind?”

“That may have been a factor,” Mycroft allowed, his face flushing. “On reflection, there are a number of safe houses in this city and the likelihood of them all being at capacity is…infinitesimally small.”

“Ah,” Greg grinned. “So a bit of sneaky-sneaky by Anthea then. Should we send her a thank you?”

“I’m not sure that would be appropriate,” Mycroft murmured. “Either way, I will let you know. What time are you expected at work today?”

“I’m not due in ‘til nine,” Greg said. “Might have a slow morning.” He grinned at Mycroft as his lips brushed Greg’s hairline. Mycroft padded over to the bathroom and Greg snuggled down in the warmth again, dozing to the sound of the shower. The cessation of noise roused him and soon Mycroft reappeared, dressing with his usual precision.

“I will leave the office at five,” Mycroft murmured to Greg. “Will I see you for dinner?”

“Absolutely,” Greg replied. “I’m unemployed too, remember? No last minute crime scenes for this old man.” It felt strange even saying it. He wondered how it would feel if a call came in and the team scrambled without him. Before the odd feeling could coalesce into anything too depressing he shook it off. No use borrowing trouble.

“You’re not old,” Mycroft said quietly. His face was visible in the light still spilling from the en-suite, his expression earnest.

“The hair doesn’t lie,” Greg joked.

“It certainly does,” Mycroft replied. “Anyone can see it’s years ahead of the rest of you. He smiled once more at Greg before turning off the en-suite light. “Rest well, Gregory,” he said before he strode out the door.

Greg grinned to himself. He had another hour to lie in before he absolutely had to get up to make it to work on time. Not that it really mattered if he was late today. Another weird thought. Not terrible though, he consoled himself, pulling the warm blankets back up.

+++

Half an hour later, Greg shot up, his scalp tingling. Why had he woken so abruptly? He frowned, trying to think over the pounding of his heart. Adrenaline was doing its thing to prepare his body for fight or flight, but he had no idea why. He breathed deeply then stopped halfway through a breath as a sound came from along the corridor, towards Mycroft’s office.

Ah. That was it, then. His brain had recognised the empty-flat/noises-from-the-office juxtaposition and woken him, adrenalin already flowing through his veins. He wasn’t sure it was better to know, as his adrenal glands pumped another shot into his bloodstream. Taking a steadying breath, Greg slid out of bed and pulled on his shirt, grateful he’d worn pyjamas trousers last night. With the comforting weight of the bedside lamp in his palm, he crept down the hallway. A sound came to him, a muttering, the deep timbre…familiar. Familiar? Greg frowned, his body screaming DO SOMETHING – either run or hit something with the lamp still gripped in his fist.

“CHRIST, MYCROFT!” the voice boomed suddenly, making Greg jump. At the same time, he recognised the voice and relief course through him. Deliberately, he dropped the heavy lamp, relishing the thump as it hit the carpet. The sound prompted a sudden halt in the muttering that had resumed after that cry. He waited a moment before pushing the study door open.

“Morning, Sherlock,” Greg said, crossing his arms and leaning against the doorjamb, knowing he bore a wide smirk on his face. To his incredible satisfaction Sherlock was speechless, his face shocked at Greg’s arrival.

“Lestrade?” Sherlock said, his voice pitched far higher than Greg had ever heard. Oh good, he’d not picked up Mycroft’s new relationship when they’d seen each other. This could be fun, then.

“Can I help you find something?” Greg asked. He watched Sherlock straighten up, brows knitting as his eyes flew over Greg’s unshaved face, rumpled shirt, and bare feet. It was hardly rocket science to see Greg had stayed the night, but he was wondering how much more Sherlock would deduce. He waited patiently, watching as Sherlock’s face rocketed from confusion to understanding to revulsion and back to confusion.

“There’s always something,” Sherlock gasped at last. He was breathing funny, Greg noticed, idly wondering if he was going to hyperventilate at the clearly astonishing news.

“Yeah,” Greg said in a deliberately offhand manner. “I guess there is.”

“You and Mycroft?” Sherlock couldn’t help asking, and Greg just grinned and nodded. He must be shocked if he was making obvious statements like that.

 “Surprised you didn’t pick it up when he came to see you, actually,” Greg said when Sherlock remained silent.

“I was somewhat blindsided by the rest of his news.” Sherlock said. “Your health, apparently?”

“I had a stroke,” Greg said, not wanting to have to explain what a TIA was. “Enough to reassess things. Change the parts of my life that stress me out the most. Basically that was work.”

Sherlock frowned again. “Mycroft said his situation was similar to yours.”

Greg was amazed. This was more like having a conversation with a regular person – Sherlock was barely deducing anything. He was asking questions instead. It was kind of weird, actually.

“The doctor pointed out which of my lifestyle factors were the most likely to give me another stroke,” Greg said. “Most of them applied to your brother too.”

“So Mycroft decided to resign.”

“Yep.”

“From MI5.”

Greg shrugged. “Or wherever it is he works. I never really got around to asking specifics.” He grinned, trying to lighten the mood. “Other things to do, mate.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes at the crude innuendo. “I will never need even that level of detail about your relationship with my brother, Greg.”

“Ah, I’ve been promoted, then?” Greg said mildly.

Sherlock frowned. “Our father will…”

“Yeah, I met your Dad.” Sherlock’s face belied his shock. “He’s a piece of work, isn’t he? Bet it wasn’t easy growing up with that kind of expectation on you.”

“No,” Sherlock said faintly.

“Your Mum’s nice, though,” Greg continued conversationally.

“She has always appreciated the sons she has rather than sharing her disappointment in the sons she does not have,” Sherlock replied automatically.

“Yeah, I can see that,” Greg said. “Well, he’s the one missing out now, isn’t he? I mean, Mycroft barely sees him, I bet you don’t go and watch the rugby with him,” Sherlock gave a derisive snort at the idea, “so he’s reaping what he sowed, as my Mum would say.”

“Yes, well,” Sherlock said, looking down as he brushed off his coat unnecessarily, “John has made a similar point, I believe.”

His red cheeks at the mention of John’s name confirmed Greg’s suspicions – that Sherlock was as gone on John as John had appeared on him when they’d talked in the pub. Greg grinned. “John’s a smart man. A good man.”

“Yes,” Sherlock agreed, tight lipped.

“Donovan’s up for my job,” Greg said, changing the subject. “I reckon she’ll probably call you in. If you were interested.”

Sherlock flicked an eyebrow, which Greg took as a sign to go on. “I’ve forwarded her the ranking charts you sent me so she knows what’s worth your time.”

Sherlock couldn’t hide his surprise this time. “You kept those?”

“Yeah, of course,” Greg replied, ignoring the flash of guilt at the ‘Shit from Sherlock’ folder he’d created so long ago. “Look, she’s going to make an effort, is all I’m saying. It’s up to you, but if she calls you, it might be worth going and checking it out.”

“I’ll think about it,” Sherlock said cautiously.

“Right,” Greg replied, sensing the dismissal. “Well I’ve gotta get into work anyway, start cleaning stuff up, handing over to whoever’s taking my cases.”

“Very well,” Sherlock said and without another word swept past Greg and down the stairs. Greg stared after him for a moment before shaking his head. He stooped to pick up the lamp, dropping it back on the bed as he walked past to the shower. At least Sherlock knew now. It was hard to keep track of who knew what, Greg thought. He didn’t have enough space in his brain for all that.

+++

_8.04am_

_I just made a rather unpleasant discovery in your private study, brother. SH_

_8.23am_

_Aren’t you interested? SH_

_8.29am_

_I’m sure you’ll tell me in your own time._

_I have no desire to fuel your narcissism._

_8.42am_

_Why didn’t you tell me about Gregory?_

_8.45am_

_I’m surprised you didn’t deduce it._

_8.46am_

_You made every effort to hide it. Why was that?_

_8.59am_

_This is not a passing fancy, nor is it a subject for ridicule, Sherlock._

_9.01am_

_I can see that. You know he’s completely in love with you._

_9.03am_

_As I am with him._

_9.05am_

_Don’t break him, brother. He is one of the few tolerable people at Scotland Yard._

_9.06am_

_*was_

_9.11am_

_Thank you, Sherlock._

_9.18am_

_What for?_

_9.19am_

_Your support._

 

+++

_8.15am_

_Heya, I just saw Sherlock._

_Heads up that he might be a bit…weird._

_Let me know if he doesn’t come home today._

_8.19am_

_What? Why?_

_8.20am_

_He let himself into Mycroft’s place._

_8.21am_

_Hang on what? Did they call you?_

_8.22am_

_Did who call me?_

_8.23am_

_How did you know he broke into Mycroft’s house?_

_8.25am_

_I was there, John._

_8.27am_

_Shit, yeah, sorry. Forgot about that._

_Sherlock’s been a handful._

_8.30am_

_Is he home?_

_8.31am_

_No._

_8.39am_

_Want some company?_

_8.41am_

_Don’t you have to be at work?_

_8.42am_

_Nah. I’ll be over soon._

_8.44am_

_I’ll put the kettle on._

+++

_8.45am_

_Where are you?_

_8.58am_

_Sherlock. Greg told me he saw you at Mycroft’s._

_8.59am_

_I do not need a reminder of that horrific conversation, John. SH_

_9.02am_

_Just get home, will you?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * The conversation between Greg and Sherlock in Mycroft's study was inspired by [this](https://www.pinterest.com.au/pin/390968811384812816/) meme. I was so happy to be able to include it in this story!
> 
> * Greg's 'shit from Sherlock' email folder was inspired by a boss of mine who sent a LOT of unimportant emails - so I redirected everything from him to a folder titled 'shit from [name]'. I never felt guilty about it, though.


	9. Chapter 9

John threw his phone onto the sofa and sighed. Sherlock had been a full time occupation over the past few weeks – since their house arrest, if not before. John was just contemplating Scotch versus tea when he remembered he’d offered to put the kettle on for Greg. Waiting for the kettle to boil gave him time to ruminate, and it wasn’t until he heard footsteps on the stairs he realised how long he’d been thinking about things.

“Hey, Greg,” he said, flicking the kettle back on. Must have been a while, the kettle had started to cool again.

“Alright, John?” Greg asked, “Any word on our favourite consulting detective?”

“He’s replying to me,” John replied. “More or less. I’m hoping he’s on the way home.” They took their tea into the sitting room, Greg slumping on the sofa, John into his chair.

“Been a handful, then?” Greg asked.

John gave Greg a look that spoke volumes.

“Right.” Greg replied. “I was surprised he hadn’t figured it out when he saw Mycroft.”

“I think the news about Mycroft’s resignation shook him.” John replied. “Not to mention yours.”

“Yeah,” Greg said. John could see him shift uncomfortably. “We just thought he should hear it from one of us instead of through the grapevine.”

“Well, given how he reacted to it, probably best the conversation happened here,” John agreed.

“With you,” Greg added with a knowing look.

“Yep,” John said without embarrassment. “I’m the only one that can deal with that kind of strop.”

“I bet you can,” Greg replied with a smirk.

“It’s probably exactly what you’re thinking,” John said conversationally. “Would you like details?”

“Mmm,” Greg said, pretending to think about it, “probably not, mate.”

“Thank God,” John replied then he was moving before he even knew why. He vaguely registered the astonishment on Greg’s face before he was at the door meeting a surprised and thankfully contrite consulting detective.

“Sherlock,” John greeted him, eyes raking over him, automatically assessing for injuries. Who knew what Sherlock had been up to, even in the relatively short time he’d been absent?

“John…” Sherlock murmured, before his gaze flicked to Greg. The annoyance was immediate. “Do you think there’s a possibility I could enter a residence somewhere in London without finding you there, Lestrade?”

John knew Greg would find it amusing – it was, kind of. Sherlock did kind of have a point, though, and now that he knew Sherlock was safe and John was okay to look out for him, he was free to go.

“I’m off to work,” Greg addressed his comment to John. “Give me a buzz if you need anything.”

“We won’t!” Sherlock called after Greg, and John could hear him chuckling as he descended the stairs.

+++

The next four days flew, though Greg felt like he was marking time. Word at NSY had spread fast, as it always did, and he’d had a steady stream of people dropping by for gossip or to express their surprise at his decision. He’d decided early on not to go into the details of why he was resigning, or his relationship with Mycroft; Sally would keep mum, and it was more than he really wanted to deal with right now. Instead he gave vague hints about being offered ‘other professional opportunities’ and left it at that. Henrikson had been as good as her word and sent him an email outlining who would be taking over his cases; he’d spent the first two days organising notes on cases closed but awaiting trial (he’d probably be called to give evidence, but someone else could do the paperwork when the court stuff was over), finishing other overdue paperwork and generally getting himself somewhere close to caught up. He’d started meeting with the DI’s that would be taking over his cases, walking them through where the investigations were at.

The first meeting had been cut short when El-Khub’s team had been called out to a homicide. A Sergeant’s head popped around the corner and Madji was out the door, a quick apologetic smile flashed before he was gone. Greg found it odd, knowing he wouldn’t ever be the one leaving suddenly again. Instead he picked up his notes, continued the voice recording of his investigation so far, and left the pile on DI El-Khub’s desk. He could ask Sally if he had any other questions. It left Greg feeling slightly useless and he’d wandered back to his desk, half-heartedly picking up a bunch of photo frames and stacking them in the box of personal items he was taking home today. A few each day was logistically easier than everything on the last day, but he’d underestimated how emotional he would get as his office slowly cleared.

“Boss?” Sally’s voice broke into the sudden wave of melancholia.

“Yeah?” Greg replied, turning to her.

“Coffee break?” she asked, and he nodded. They ducked out to the Starbucks nearby – her preference, not his – and sat with their giant cups at the window overlooking the street.

“When’s your interview?” Greg asked. Even though he had the smallest size, it was a ridiculous amount of black coffee for one person. He’d probably only drink half before tossing the rest.

“Monday,” Sally replied. “I’ve been hearing questions in my sleep, it’s bloody ridiculous.”

“You’ll be fine,” Greg assured her. “You’ve been doing the job for weeks now, you know the procedure.”

“It’s gonna be weird if I get the job,” she said.

“Yep,” Greg said, not wanting to sugar coat it.

They sat in silence, the space becoming alarmingly maudlin until Sally finally spoke.

“Right, enough brooding. You’re not gone yet, and I happen to know there’s a pool on what you’re actually doing when you leave. They’re going to make you tell on the last day.”

Greg raised his eyebrows. “Really?”

“Come on, this lot would run a pool on which phone rang next,” she said.

He had to concede – it was ridiculous how many unofficial pools went around. “So what’re the guesses, then?”

“No, no, no,” Sally told him, “there’s serious money on this, and I want to win.”

“Sally Donovan,” Greg asked, “are you asking me to help you cheat in return for a split of the winnings?”

“No,” she said, “I’m bribing you with a split of the winnings so you’ll lie in my favour.” She grinned at him. “A parting gift, if you will.”

“What?” Greg said, confused.

“I know what you’re really going to be doing, and I know you’d rather it didn’t go public.” Sally said. At Greg’s shocked face, she said, “Oh, don’t look at me like that. I’m not serious. Well I am about winning the pool, it’s a bloody lot of money, but I won’t tell anyone, you know that.”

As Greg relaxed, Sally added, “You know you don’t have to tell anyone, but they’ll be asking. A lot.”

He sat back, folding his arms, wondering if he’d let the truth slip, fairly sure he hadn’t. “Go on, then,” he said, “dazzle me.”

“You’re shacking up with Mycroft Holmes,” Sally said, a look of delight spreading over her face as she saw Greg’s eyes open in astonishment, “and probably getting a classified job to boot.”

“How the fuck did you know that?” Greg asked. Despite himself, he was impressed. He and Mycroft hadn’t even talked about it yet. “I only told you we were dating.”

“A little birdie,” she said, then added at his Look, “named John,” he nodded in understanding, “may have let slip a few things at the pub the other night.” She grinned. “He was pretty pissed. Kept going on about how you and he need to stick together now.” She frowned. “I didn’t really get that bit.”

“John and Sherlock are shagging,” Greg said, deliberately blunt for the shock value. It worked, too, and it was his turn for a smug grin. “We’re dating the Holmes’, it’s a new extreme sport.” He shrugged. “My and I haven’t talked about moving in, but…”

“Right,” Sally said. She gathered herself, then said in a business-like way, “So given your new association with Mycroft, I’d have to then deduce that you’re either going to live off his obviously extensive wealth – unlikely given your frankly disappointing interest in material possessions – or he’s going to arrange a job in intelligence.”

“I’m impressed,” Greg said, ignoring the ribbing. “You’re right,” he added, watching the gleam of satisfaction in her eyes.

“So what are the guesses, and what should our cover story be?” he asked, sipping at his coffee.

+++

Greg smiled as Mycroft greeted him, the lift opening into Mycroft’s kitchen as usual.

“You beat me here,” Greg commented.

“Only by a few moments,” Mycroft replied, moving close as Greg shucked his coat. “Remind me to have you added to the security. It’s ridiculous for you to keep buzzing in.”

Greg shrugged, though the idea sent a lovely warmth through him. “Really?” he smiled. “That’d be great.” He could see Mycroft wrestling with something else and waited, wondering if Mycroft would speak or not.

After a silent half minute, Greg ventured “Tea?”

At the exact same moment, Mycroft opened his mouth.

“Sorry,” Greg said. “You go.”

Mycroft nodded taking a deep breath. “I was actually going to continue by posseting the idea of you moving in.”

Greg grinned, his heart skipping a beat at the nervous expression on Mycroft’s face. “Seriously? I mean, that’d be great, but are you sure?”

“Yes,” Mycroft said, determination written all over his face. “Given the extent to which we have planned our future together, it makes sense.” Greg watched as his face softened, though nervous tension still pulled at his eyes. “And I would very much like to have you here as much as possible.”

“Mmmm, we do need to thank Anthea for that,” Greg murmured. “Sneaky little minx.”

“I tried to fire her,” Mycroft murmured, “however she informed me I was no longer an employee, I was not in a position to terminate her employment.”

“You’re well shot of her,” Greg said. “Can’t have a subordinate taking matters into her own hands.” He’d have to remember to ignore Mycroft and send Anthea a thank-you.

“I am endlessly grateful she did, as a matter of fact,” Mycroft said softly.

“Me too, gorgeous,” Greg replied. He stepped in close, pulling Mycroft in for the hug he’d been hoping for since first setting eyes on him. The closeness made him sigh, breathing in Mycroft and relaxing finally, now that the outside world was behind them. Funny how he only really thought of this place as a haven, after it had effectively been their prison; once he and Mycroft had finally gotten together the lack of outside intervention had been a blessing rather than a curse. Plus, of course; with the events of their first day back in the real world, having a place to hibernate together tending to their respective wounds was wonderful. The idea had crossed his mind, as they’d talked about so many aspects of their professional lives, and the assumption that their personal lives would be closely interwoven had been unspoken and assumed, at least by Greg. Having it out there, confirming Mycroft’s parallel views, was a relief as well as a comfort. They were moving forward together.

“I guess I’d better…” Greg started, then stopped himself. “Actually, I hate moving house. Do you think you could arrange it?” He’d never taken advantage of Mycroft’s connections, but this seemed like the perfect time to use the apparently endless reach of the man.

“Of course,” Mycroft murmured, pressing a kiss into the side of his neck. “Before we do that, though, there are other things on the plan for this evening.”

Greg’s heart – and cock – leapt at the idea. “Really,” he said.

“Dinner will be ready in five minutes,” Mycroft told him, and Greg could feel the smile against his skin. “And we could talk about the offer Roger made me.”

“And then?” Greg asked, sliding his hands down to hold Mycroft’s hips as he pressed his half-hard erection forward.

“We’ll have to see, won’t we?” Mycroft replied. He leaned up for a kiss, and the five minutes evaporated in slow blissful kissing. Only the oven timer broke the silence and, by reluctant extension, their grip on each other.

A few moments later they were seated at the table. Mycroft’s ‘few minutes’ extra at home had allowed him to prepare salmon and vegetables, a meal Gregory knew was designed to maximise their nutritional intake. He sighed as he speared a green bean.

“I’ll never like green vegetables,” Greg grumbled. “It’s a good thing I’m sat here with you, I’m telling you.”

“I know,” Mycroft replied, “and I will be grateful for every day you are seated here with me. Eat your fish, it’s full of omega-3.”

“So, tell me about Roger,” Greg asked, obediently cutting into his fish with the edge of his fork. It fell apart as he expected it would. “You saw him today, then?”

“We met for lunch,” Mycroft replied. “After an extremely satisfactory negotiation, he offered both of us employment.”

“A pissing contest,” Greg replied, smirking when Mycroft made a face at the crude term. “Hang on, both of us?”

“It was a negotiation,” Mycroft corrected, “a highly skilled conversation in which I believe I emerged victorious.”

“Okay,” Greg replied, grinning and impatient, “but both of us? He hasn’t even met me.” A thought occurred to him. “Hang on, he’s not taking me just because he wants you, is he?”

“Gregory,” Mycroft said his tone reproachful. “Roger may be fairly desperate to secure my services, but he does work for MI5. He would hardly employ someone substandard simply to ensure I accept his offer.”

“Mmm-hmmm,” Greg replied through a mouth full of fish. He gave his most sceptical expression and urged Mycroft with his hand to continue.

“Roger has read your file, of course,” Mycroft told him. “Along with my personal recommendation, he would possibly have offered you an initial contract regardless, simply to observe your working.”

“Wow,” Greg said. “Seriously?”

Mycroft shrugged. “International intelligence is a growing industry, Gregory. They need experienced people, and while you appear unable to see it, I can assure you that you bear many of the traits and skills for which they are looking.”

“Okay, then,” Greg said. “So what’s the deal?”

Mycroft lay down his knife and fork. “Roger and I have come to an agreement, pending your approval, of course. You and I will be subcontractors. We will be offered opportunities with MI5 on a case by case basis, depending on what they need for any given situation. Given our differing skill sets, you and I may or may not be employed on the same contracts at the same time, however neither of us will be required to accept any offer extended us.” He smiled. “We may elect to work at the same time, if the opportunity arises, or we may elect to take time off. The choice will be ours, and believe me when I say there will be no repercussions for turning down offers.” He smiled contentedly. “We will be small cogs in a very big machine, Gregory.”

“Bloody hell,” Greg breathed. “Are you…I mean, wow.” He knew he was staring at Mycroft, but this was… “What about the…offers?” he asked, carefully using the same language as Mycroft. The euphemisms of international intelligence, he thought to himself with a slightly hysterical leap of his heartbeat. “What kind of work are we talking about?”

“Nothing dangerous,” Mycroft assured him immediately. “Your skills lie towards managing people, individuals and teams. Roger was also interested in your interview skills.”

“Interview or interrogation?” Greg asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Interview.” Mycroft replied firmly. “MI5 deals with both trained foreign agents and those of a more…amateur status.” He shifted in his seat. “No offense intended. I simply mean that while they might be nasty, difficult interview subjects, they tend not to have training in interview resistance and endurance. Your experience with the homicide division would be valuable in determining tactics for such individuals.”

“Sounds like just my speed,” Greg replied. He grinned. “You get all formal when you talk about work, did you know?”

“I beg your pardon?” Mycroft asked.

“I just mean you use all these big words and euphemisms for stuff. It’s quite…engaging.”

“Really,” Mycroft murmured, a slight smirk telling Greg his innuendo had not passed unnoticed.

“And what about you?” Greg asked, deliberately changing the subject.

“My experience lies more towards the politics of international cooperation,” Mycroft replied.

“Pretending to be nice to other countries, then.” Greg said.

“That is an apt description,” Mycroft agreed.

“Well, it sounds pretty good,” Greg told him. He pushed his empty plate away. “Where do I sign?”

Mycroft blinked. “Well there are still some formalities, and of course Roger will actually want to meet with you…”

“It’s a figure of speech, Mycroft,” Greg said. “What I mean is, I’m interested. It sounds perfect, frankly, and if I get to choose, and you get to choose…” he shrugged. “Perfect.”

“I was thinking we could perhaps split our time between London and Kingston,” Mycroft told him. “The commute would be too difficult every day, but when neither of us are working,” he shrugged. “It is preferable to London.”

“Perfect,” Greg grinned at him, pushing himself away from the table. Mycroft was finished, or very nearly, and Greg pulled him up before pressing him against the wall, ignoring Mycroft’s attempts at further conversation for a good long while.

When they had recovered somewhat and Greg had made tea, they settled on the sofa in the sitting room.

“Tell me about the rest of your day,” Mycroft asked, his legs winding with Greg’s.

Greg frowned, thinking, before bursting out laughing.

“Gregory?” Mycroft asked.

“Oh, Mycroft,” Greg replied. “The afternoon was pretty boring, but you missed all the excitement this morning.”

“I did receive a message from my brother,” Mycroft replied. “I assumed he’d found the picture of us in my study.”

“He breaks in often, does he?” Greg asked, half amused at the brothers’ casual approach to lawful behaviour.

“On occasion.” Mycroft admitted. “What happened this time?”

“I thought he was an intruder and almost clobbered him over the head with the bedside lamp,” Greg said, chuckling as Mycroft dropped his head into his hands, cheeks aflame. “Turns out he had no idea about you and I, so I almost gave him a heart attack. Good thing I was dressed. Well, a bit dressed.”

“Oh my God,” Mycroft muttered. “How did he…”

“Shocked, but okay,” Greg replied. “I told him that Sally might call him. No idea what he thought about that but at least he knows. I figured he’d contact you somehow and I didn’t want to get in the middle of that so I didn’t message you today.”

“He did, and thank you.” Mycroft kissed Greg. “That’s very considerate.”

“I did call John,” Greg told him, “which lead to a funny thing. I went over to Baker Street, had a cuppa with John while he waited for Sherlock. He said he’d assumed Sherlock had deduced you and I from your conversation and didn’t want to talk about it, so he hadn’t brought it up.” He rolled his eyes – it was a bit farcical, all this stuff about who knew what about whom. “I was there when Sherlock came in. You should have seen the look on his face.”

“I’m sure he was not amused at your presence, Gregory,” Mycroft replied.

“Nope. But hopefully he’ll appreciate it. I’m sure John will talk to him.” Greg said. He snuggled in closer to Mycroft. “God, I can’t wait to give up my flat and be here with you.”

“Mmmm,” Mycroft hummed in agreement.

“When do we start with MI5?” Greg asked.

“Not for a few weeks,” Mycroft replied. “We both still have tasks to complete for our former employers.”

“Maybe we can snatch a few days in the country, then?” Greg asked, feeling himself begin to drift off. He fumbled for the floor, dropping his mug and Mycroft’s safely out of the way.

“Mmmm,” Mycroft hummed. He must be dozing too, if there were no real words in reply.

“What’re you thinking about?” Greg asked hazily.

“You,” Mycroft replied with a huff of effort. “And you?”

“Chocolate croissants,” Greg replied. “I can have one every day if we live in Kingston.”

“No you can’t,” Mycroft replied. “Far too much saturated fat, Gregory.”

“You’re going to make me eat well forever, aren’t you?” Greg grumbled.

“For many, many years, I hope,” Mycroft replied.

The response should have made him grumble again, but Greg felt himself smiling instead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, before everyone gets excited/relieved/upset that this is done, there is ONE MORE CHAPTER!  
> However, there is a caveat.  
> The extra chapter is an epilogue set in the future - way, way, in the future, and it bears a Major Character Death warning. I don't want to give away anymore than that, but if MCD is a hard limit for you, you might want to consider this the end of the story. I'm going to publish the epilogue as a separate story in this series, just in case, and it will bear tags and warnings.
> 
> So if you're going to depart now (and even if you're not): thank you. Thank you to everyone who read the very first chapter of House Arrest and spurred me to keep writing. Thank you if you were patient during the first hiatus, and if you were impatient but gentle with me, too! Thank you for the celebratory emails when Emancipation returned, and the lovely feedback that just kept flowing in. Thank you to everyone who shared the new chapter/new work notifications on tumblr and Facebook. Thank you if you stumbled on Free Pardon and stayed up late to catch up in time for the next chapter.  
> I appreciate all of you. I am so grateful to be part of a community that works so hard to uplift and celebrate its members and push me (and others) to soar with our talents. <3
> 
> If you're gonna hang in there...psych, there's no wait time, imma publish it RIGHT NOW, because you're all so lovely and I can't wait another second. I hope you enjoy it. <3


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